Yet Another Note: The Winchester Mad Bombings
by A.Pseudonym
Summary: It had to be done... and it is done! Watari reminisces on how he met L, all those years ago, and the strange circumstances surrounding L's first case.
1. Correspondence

Chapter One : Correspondence

Memories are strange things. There can be events so fundamental to the path your life has taken, such vital pivoting points, yet you hardly ever think of them. Living in the now is a skill, and one highly praised at that, but sometimes memories come unbidden. They do not knock politely at your door but kick it in and stomp into your drawing room, demanding to be entertained. One such memory attacks me now, as the door to the surveillance office slides open and L—or 'Ryuuzaki', in his present disguise—looks at me in silence. There is something wrong; I can see it in his face. My assumption is confirmed when I ask and he does not reply. He stands just inside the door, shoulders hunched, staring at the floor. Twenty-five years old, the world's most renowned and respected detective, heir to a fortune (mine), and the leader of an elite task force committed to catching the most dangerous criminal of our time— Kira. But today, as the rain lashes down outside, he stands inside the door of what currently passes as my office, and stares at the ground like a lost child. The cold light from the surveillance monitors makes his pale face even more ghostly, and that's what brings the memories, replays the past like a digital home-movie of my mind. The first time we met. The first case he worked on as L. The series of events that the media came to dub 'the Winchester Mad Bombings'. Rightly so. It was madness.

I am known now as Watari, but the first time I met the boy who was to become the world's greatest detective, I was only Quillish Wammy, a fifty-four year old inventor with an amateurish interest for mysterious and unsolved crimes. It was in October of 1987, and the world was still recovering from the third Great War. We had been enjoying a fragile peace for some eighteen months, people were starting to relax, the blackout curtains I remember from my childhood were taken down again and curfews were abandoned. Things were looking up for the people of my hometown of Winchester.

There had been one bombing after the end of the war; on May 26, 1986, a car bomb had gone off near Oram's Arbour, at the junction of High Street and Clifton Terrace. Nobody had been injured, except the driver of the car who died immediately, and it appeared to everyone as a senseless and singular crime. People had enough of death and destruction, they were worn out after the horrors of the war, and the car bomb, although never explained, was quickly forgotten by the general public, dismissed as some random lunacy. Then, on the fourteenth day of the new year, 1987, the bomber struck again. Of course, at the time, nobody knew the same culprit lay behind the deeds. Nobody, perhaps, but a seven-year-old boy. Although, it does seem unbelievable that even he should have reached that conclusion after only two bombings.

The second bombing was more dramatic. At eleven o'clock in the evening, a man identified as Diego Garcia rang the doorbell of a private home on Alresford Rd. When the house owner opened the door, according to witnessing neighbours, the man took one step into the house and exploded. The senseless suicide mission shook the country like the previous car bombing had failed to do, and for the first time since the war, fear started seeping back into the hearts of the townsfolk. And when a similar incident occurred on the 7th of June—a man with explosives strapped to his right leg chased visitors around Winnall Moors Nature Reserve in hysterics, only to eventually clutch onto a tree and detonate—the media started spreading the panic in earnest, dubbing it with traditional hyperbole as The Winchester Suicide Bomb Epidemic.

The fourth bomb was on the 4th of September. Oram's Arbour again, now on the other side of the complex near Clifton Rd. Nobody seems to have witnessed the actual detonation, but it was revealed to be yet another suicide bomb, and the remains found at the scene were identified as belonging to a man by the unlikely name of George Gregory Goldfish. Still no organisation claimed the attacks. In fact, they could hardly be labelled as attacks, because they did not attack anything specific. Apart from the house on Alresford Rd, all three other bombings had claimed no additional victims, and resulted in no structural damage. It was a mystery, to the police as well as the public. And it was as a mystery I thought of it when I received the letter. The letter that would change the course of everything, the town's fate, my own life and that of one of the greatest minds of our time.

I still had my workshop at this time, although I was in the process of selling the premises and move temporarily into the basement of the Wammy house, my newly established orphanage. The inventions were really a hobby at this point, my patents already guaranteeing me a more than comfortable pension, and it seemed unnecessary to keep the workshop separate to the massive mansion I had purchased. But this particular day—the 27th of October 1987—my mail was still delivered to the workshop on Canon street. And it was there, on a day much like today, in the dusky hall with the rain lashing down outside and water dripping from my coat to soak into the carpet, that I first became aware of the existence of L.

I had my a newspaper clamped under my arm, my briefcase in one hand and a folded umbrella dripping rain water in the other as I pulled the front door shut. The hall was dark, the grey rain light of the evening barely making it through the window above the door. A window that—I admit—needed cleaning, but what else could you honestly expect from a bachelor inventor's workshop? The mail was on the doormat inside as usual; a pile of bills and miscellaneous correspondence. I left the umbrella in the stand by the door and flicked the light switch, making the worn burgundy carpet come to an iridescent life, interwoven fibre optics illuminating the flock wallpaper with an almost psychedelic glow. Not one of my more commercially viable inventions, and one I often thought to do away with, but it had seemed like a good idea in the 60's when I installed it. Granted, a lot of things had seemed a good idea in those days. The smell of exotic herbs never did quite go out of the carpet pile. But I digress.

The envelope itself was unremarkable. Small, white, locally postmarked. No return address on the back, but somehow it caught my interest. I dumped the rest of the mail on the little wooden table in the hallway and took of my coat and hat, hanging them up in the closet with the inbuilt hot air fan to dry them, and went through to the sitting room. The rain was falling outside the window like a silver drapery, a streetlamp throwing wet shadows across the room before I turned the ceiling light on. Home sweet home. The room contained only the bare basics; a leather armchair, a low and wide oak coffee table, worn from years of use, and a fireplace that I tried to keep stocked with fresh dry wood at all times. The petal shaped glass of the lamps chased the dreary evening away and, after making a detour to the kitchen to put the kettle on, I sat down in the chair and opened the white envelope. The letter inside was handwritten, the script rather crudely rendered, and read as follows.

"Dear Mr. Wammy;

You come highly recommended. I am writing you regarding the possible commission of a device for the interruption of a wireless signal. If you agree to take on this task, it will have to be a highly secret development, as it is connected to a local current police investigation. If this is of interest to you, you can contact me via Mr. Smythe at the Milesdown Children's Home at your earliest convenience.

Your sincerely,

L"

I read the letter twice. It was without a doubt the strangest piece of communication I had ever received, and the most intriguing. In the kitchen, the kettle clicked off as the water reached boiling point, and I put the note on the table along side the newspaper as I went to make myself a cup of Earl Grey. Perhaps it was a prank, I thought. No name on the letter, except for this highly cryptic 'L'. No telephone number or even address. No mention of who exactly had 'highly recommended' me. The whole thing sounded dubious, I thought as I dunked the teabag in the porcelain cup, watching the deep brown colour unfold into streaks and swirls in the hot water. 'L'. That one initial preyed on my mind. A current local police investigation, the letter had said. A wireless interruption device. Could it possibly have to do with the case that the newspapers referred to as the Mad Bombings? There was some evidence to suggest that the suicide bombers had not been volunteers for their missions, although this was not common knowledge. I had a friend in the force however, who sometimes let slip information in return for a pint of two down the local. Nothing vital or top-secret, but little bits of knowledge that interested me and harmed nobody else. So, perhaps the explosives that had been strapped to the victims/perpetrators had been remote controlled in some fashion? In any case, my curiosity was thoroughly roused.

I skimmed through the letter one more time, sipping my tea, and then looked at my watch. It was nearing half past seven in the afternoon, and it was dark outside now and still raining heavily. I had no particular desire to brave the weather a second time, but my curiosity would not let me rest. It would appear my earliest convenience was right about now.

I grabbed my copy of the yellow pages from beside the phone and rifled through the thin pages for the address of the Milesdown Children's Home. It was on Northbrook Rd, less than two kilometres away as the crow flies, and would not be a long walk even the roundabout way. Reaching a decision, I folded the letter and put it back in the envelope, which in turn I put in the pocket of my jacket. Back in the hallway, I put my coat on—it was still wet from the rain—and took my umbrella out of the stand. I had a strange, excited flutter in my stomach; the feeling that I was standing, still quite ignorant, on the brink of something very big. If I had only known.

Popping open my umbrella, I switched off the carpet light and pulled the door open on the stormy October night. Although I didn't know it at the time, I was on my way to meeting the single most unique individual I have ever known. I locked the door securely behind me and walked down the drenched deserted street, every step fuelled by curiosity and purpose. I could already feel it; I was walking into history.

--

_Disclaimer: Please note that, although most of the place and business names in this story do/have exist/ed in the real world, this is only an indication that I'm too lazy to make up fictional names and simply resort to using google. Alot. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. Watari's name in this is Quillish because it is in the book and it sounds more like a real name to me than 'Quillsh'. Timeline taken from the manga/book, not the anime. Some scenes taken from the anime. No offence meant to people living in Winchester or anywhere else. The political views of anyone in this piece of fiction is not necessarily shared by the author. Death Note is the property of people who aren't me. No animals were injured in the making of this fic. Watari may or may not have invented a glow in the dark carpet.. Article is provided "as is" without any warranties. Some in-jokes may occur. Not responsible for direct, indirect, incidental or consequential damages resulting from any defect, error or failure to perform. Subject to revision without notice. Feedback is appreciated. Thank you very much reading this fic._


	2. The Child

_A/N: __So so sorry – there was a massive slip-up in the last chapter regarding the dates and number of the bombings. I wrote three when there was really supposed to have been four. I couldn't have messed up in a worse place. For any of L's calculations to make sense, you'll have to read the fixed version. Or, you know, just take his word for it ;)_

--

Chapter Two: The Child

"What is it?" I ask the silent figure again. Again, I receive no response. Behind me on the bank of monitors, life continues as normal in the form of maps and statistics. One camera shows a sky-view of Tokyo, its hundreds of millions of lights smeared out by the torrential rain. This is such a big city, such a big operation. He has come so far from those humble beginnings, that little room in that little town where it all started.

A streetlight by the gate illuminated the driveway up to Milesdown children's home. It was a large two-storey Victorian building with a left wing reaching back towards the road, parallel with a hedge separating the property from the road. The paved driveway was trimmed by neatly cut grass and no stray toys littered the immaculate lawn. It looked less like a children's home than some rich old family's house.

A look at my watch told me it was not late, only quarter past eight in the evening, and I hoped my visit would not come as too much of an inconvenience. Although the light behind the big bay windows was off, there were lights burning in some windows in on the ground floor of the left wing, and a few upstairs too, so I walked the path up to the door and rung the bell. A heavy chime sounded somewhere inside the big house and for some time the only sound was the rain smattering the vinyl of my umbrella. Then the door opened and a young woman with a grey shawl wrapped around her shoulders looked at me with polite inquiry.

"My name is Wammy," I said, "I am looking for a Mr. Smythe."

"Of course, come in. Awful night out, isn't it?"

I agreed that it was and stepped into the hall.

"I'll just go and see if he's available," the young woman said. She opened a door at the end of the hall and closed it behind her.

I turned to take in the room. It was large, chilly and dim, with dark oak panelling on the walls and a set of wooden stairs leading up to the first floor. The landing upstairs was bathing in a warm yellow light, and some of it spilled over the banister and down the stairs, but not enough to chase the darkness out of the large hall. The carpet on the floor was thin and worn, and a floorboard beneath creaked as I took a few steps into the room. A faint smell of wood polish and smoke hung in the air.

To my left was the door the woman had left through; straight ahead were the stairs. To my right, the hall extended a little way beyond the reach of the upstairs light and I could barely make out a door at the end. There was a table, a sofa and a few chairs by the bay window. The sofa was a big old Chesterfield, the leather worn from over a century's worth of use, and curled up in one corner was a small child, almost lost in the shadows. I started at the unexpected sight of a tiny white face staring at me only to look away the second I noticed it. Stepping closer, I saw a boy about seven or eight with the biggest, wildest head of black hair I had ever seen. The fringe fell in front of his eyes, and he peered out from behind it as if it was a barrier of some sort. His eyes were huge and dark, his gaze flitting around the room like a trapped bird. His little feet stuck out bare from the legs of a pair of patched trousers that looked much too big for him, and his jumper was like a collapsed tent around his small body.

"What are you doing, sitting here in the dark on you own?" I asked, to break the uncomfortable silence.

The child didn't answer, just stuck his thumb in his mouth and avoided eye-contact. I heard faraway laughs and running footsteps from the floor above but could not see anybody. When I looked back at the boy, he was staring intently at my face, again looking away the moment he was noticed. What an odd child. Perhaps he was just shy.

"Are you not cold, walking around barefoot?" I asked.

He shook his head, a tiny movement, without meeting my eyes. A moment of silence passed.

"Are you going to adopt someone, mister?" he said, suddenly. His voice was quiet but clear.

"Um... that's not why I'm here..."

There was something so pitiful about the lonely hunched little figure that I felt my heart ache.

"So why are you here?" he asked, still not looking at me.

"To meet with Mr. Smythe. You know, it's quite late, is it not past your bedtime?"

For a second I almost thought I could see a cryptic little smile ghost across his face, but it must have been my imagination. Behind me, the door opened and the young woman returned, accompanied by an older gentleman. He was tall and skinny, dressed in black slacks and a knitted cardigan with patches on the elbows.

"Mr Wammy, it's a pleasure to meet you." He shook my hand. "I'm Nicholas Smythe. Please, come through to my office."

Smythe led the way through the door, into a corridor and further into a small room lined with bookshelves where an open fire was burning. He invited me to sit down in a large leather armchair and he took a seat behind the desk, clasping his hands on the desktop. The young woman came in with a tray of tea and a plate of small biscuits. Smythe thanked her and poured the tea himself.

"So, Mr. Wammy," he said after we both had taken our cups, "what can I do for you?"

I dug into my pocket and pulled out the letter, handing it to him. He read through it, nodding slowly, and pushed his spectacles up on the bridge of his nose.

"Yes, this... well, basically as the letter says; if you are prepared to take on this commission, you will be asked to produce a device with certain wireless capabilities. You will also be required to sign a legal document to protect the other parties of this transaction, basically stating that you will not be able to discuss the circumstances of the commission with anybody but myself and L."

"Yes... who is this 'L' person?"

"I have agreed not to divulge that information unless you agree to these terms. L is a very careful... individual."

Mr. Smythe looked a little bothered, like he found the situation uncomfortable or even absurd, but he kept up the appearance of normalcy.

"I see. Well, I can't deny that I'm curious. Am I right in assuming this has something to do with the recent bombings?"

Smythe had been taking a sip of his tea, and he coughed and spluttered, putting the cup down and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Wammy, I really cannot say..."

That was all the answer I needed.

"I accept the terms," I said. "If this device is something I can build, I will do it."

"Excellent." Smythe opened a desk drawer and took out a sheet of paper covered in fine print. I scanned it, and found that it was indeed a legal document binding me to silence as regards to the invention and any interaction with Smythe or the unnamed individual designated as 'L'. There was nothing much to do except sign it.

"Now then, here are the specifics of the device," Smythe handed over a brown envelope. "If you would look them over and get back to me tomorrow, that would be very helpful."

"I don't get to meet this 'L' and talk to him?"

Smythe gave me a somewhat embarrassed smile, "Not unless you feel confident that you can accomplish the task of building the device. I am sorry Mr. Wammy, I have promised to indulge him in this. I do have reason to believe that he can actually solve this... case. He really does have quite a brilliant mind."

"I see."

I did see, but I was also quite disappointed. The mystery of L was far more intriguing to me at this point than the bombings—if I was right in assuming that was the 'case'—but I would clearly have to wait to satisfy my curiosity. For tonight, I would have to be content with finding out exactly what it was he wanted me to build.

I didn't get much sleep that night. The brown envelope proved to contain a real challenge. The requirements were for a device that would scan the area around it for as large a radius as possible, pick up any wireless devices and interrupt their signals long enough to analyse their destinations. It also had to contain the option of permanently blocking any tracked signal. So, L must be positive that the explosions had been set off by remote control. Although there had been no mention of payment, I was sure that L was aware that the development of such a device would not be cheap. To me, the money was secondary, if even that. I was not doing this for the money. I was not even doing it for the possibility of saving human lives—not only. I was doing it for the mystery. I was doing it for L—whoever he was.

I woke up the following morning slumped over my workbench. Blueprints and calculations littered the desktop and when I sat up, my back stiff and sore, I found a paperclip stuck to my forehead.

I stood and stretched. I was getting much too old for this. At least I could confirm that I had made some headway. There was a list of components I would need to send away for, but I had a somewhat solid outline of the project. Something I could show Smythe, and perhaps L would decide that I had shown enough commitment and agree to speak to me in person.

It was the 28th of October, and a glorious autumn day with a blazing sun and crips cold air. The trees outside my window were a firework of reds, oranges and yellows, and even though I had got less than four hours of sleep and not even eaten breakfast yet, I could feel a distinct spring in my step as I walked over to the Milesdown Children's home with my briefcase full of technical drawings.

Mr. Smythe looked over the blueprints and my shopping list with a blank face. It clearly meant nothing to him, and I think it was more the excitement on my face that made him decide that I was not trying to bluff him. He lifted the receiver from the metal cradle of the old-style telephone on his desk and spun the disc to dial a single number. After a few seconds, he handed me the receiver without a word.

"Mr. Wammy?" The voice on the other end was warbled and tinny, like someone had played the age-old prank of putting a piece of tinfoil in the receiver. "This is L."

"So I gathered."

Well, what was I to say? I knew absolutely nothing about this man, and he refused to meet me face to face.

"I apologise for the security measures, but they are as much for your sake as mine. There is a very dangerous criminal behind these bombings, one with apparently no regard for human lives. So, am I to understand that you have agreed to work with me on this?"

At last, admittance that this was indeed about the Mad Bomber.

"Yes." I said. "I have signed your guarantee. Can you tell me anything about what I'm doing here?"

"Of course. You are probably aware of the four previous attacks. The 26th of May last year, the 14th of January, the 7th of June and the 4th of September. Do those dates tell you anything?"

What was this, a test? Had I not come highly recommended? Had he not already decided that he wanted to work with me?

"Yes, the attacks seem to be accelerating," I said.

"Yes, very good." I could almost hear the smile on his voice, distorted though it was. "They are not only accelerating, but accelerating through a predictable pattern. Following this pattern tells me that the next attack will take place tomorrow. Unfortunately, I have no way of knowing where it will happen. The police have been informed, but needless to say there is not much they can do without a location."

"Are you serious? You're telling me that you can work out when it's going to happen again? How?"

"I don't have the time to explain the maths to you, Mr. Wammy. They are quite simple, please work it out for yourself. Regardless of whether I'm right or wrong, I would like to speak to you again tomorrow. Until then, please take care."

"But... what... am I supposed to..." I began, but realised that the phone had already been hung up on the other end.

This L was not only clever enough to work out the date of the next attack, but he was quite assuming as to my own abilities. Mr Smythe smiled somewhat apologetically it seemed, and followed me to the door. Outside, the sun was still dazzling and the sky so deep and pure blue that it hurt my eyes. The fifth attack would take place tomorrow, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. With quite the inner turmoil clouding my thoughts, I walked back to my workshop.

I had almost reached my door when a black car with equally black windows pulled up alongside me and stopped. The backseat passenger window was cracked open a fraction and I could see a man wearing a hat and dark sunglasses peer out at me.

"Mr Wammy," he said, we need to talk.

This couldn't be L, could it? I really did not know what to think, but my curiosity drew me closer to the car.

"We know," the man said, "that you're working on the case of the bombings. We need to obtain any information you have on it."

"What?" I stepped back from that impassive face. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Oh come now, Mr. Wammy. We know all about the letter you received. In fact, we followed you here from the orphanage. We know you spoke to someone there, someone other than Smythe. Who was it, and what did they tell you?"

The window unrolled further and to my surprise I became aware that I had a gun pointed at me. It was fitted with a silencer, but would no doubt be quite enough to kill me at this distance.

"I didn't speak to anyone other than Smythe," I said. "And I only spoke to him to let him know that I was not prepared to take on any pro-bono cases. If you've read my mail, I'm sure you know there was no mention of money."

It might have been a terrible and unconvincing lie, but at least it would buy me some time.

"Well, if that is the case, I can tell you that we are certainly prepared to pay you for any information you might have. And very generously at that. This 'L', who is he?"

"I really have no idea."

That at least was the truth. After a fashion.

"When will the killer strike again?"

"Why are you asking me, how would I know? Is there one killer, I thought there were several suicide cases? An organisation, not a single individual. I really think you know more about this case than I do, or care to do."

The gun was still pointed at me. I still could see very little of the man's face.

"So you have no information about the bombings? Locations? Times? Dates? We could make you a very rich man, Mr. Wammy."

I was already rich. And even though L would not trust me enough to reveal his face, I was not going to betray what he had told me in confidence to someone else who was similarly hiding their face. This was getting annoying. Who did they think I was, some old grandfather who would blanche at the sight of a gun? I had fought in the war, I was a trained sniper, and I had some basic education in how to resist interrogation. These amateurs, threatening me in the open, in a public location; they clearly had no idea who they were dealing with.

"You know, I think the security cameras along the street have had ample time to register your licence plate," I said, "I think you had better move along before I call the police."

The man with the sunglasses shook his head and lowered the gun. "Mr. Wammy, we are on your side. Our cooperation would prove highly profitable for us both. Any little piece of information would be valuable to us, no matter how insignificant. Last chance, Mr. Wammy."

"I have nothing to say."

The window rolled back up and the car continued down the street. As it passed me, I saw that my line about the number plates had been quite laughable; they were completely blank.

The following day, I returned to the Milesdown Children's home at noon. No attack had been reported as of yet, but of course there was still much left of the day. Besides, L had said 'whether I'm right or wrong' and mentioned no specific time. I had spent a good deal of the previous night thinking about the sequence of dates that had led L to the conclusion that the next attack would take place today, but unfortunately the lack of sleep from the night before had taken its toll and I had fallen asleep before I could reach anything more than a half-formed idea.

Back in Smythe's office, the man seemed pleased for no apparent reason.

"Mr. Wammy," he said, "I have discussed the situation with L and... he would like to meet with you. Please follow me."

My heart beat a little faster. I really had no idea what to expect from this L. Smythe had told me he had a brilliant mind, and I had formed some sort of tentative image of him in my mind. A thirty-forty-something man with a dapper suit and a stern face. Some sort of James Bond type, with more brains and less swagger. He clearly had insight into the mad bombings case that the police had not released to the public, and apparently clearance to involve outside contractors such as myself. The specifics of the device I was to invent also told me that this was a matter of high importance—perhaps even on the level of national security.

I followed Smythe along narrow corridors and up creaking stairs. Eventually we reached a plain wooden door, one of many similar in a long hallway. Smythe nodded.

"Go on in, he's expecting you."

He didn't wait, but walked off down the hall as I knocked twice out of politeness and tried the handle. The door was unlocked and opened on a small room with a single bed and a small desk by a window. And on the floor, crouching with his knees pulled up to his chin and scribbling frenetically on a sheet of paper was the young boy I had seen in the hall yesterday. He looked up at me through the strands of hair hanging across his face and gave me the tiniest, shyest of smiles.

"Mr. Wammy. Nice to finally meet you. I'm L."

--

_Disclaimer: Please note that, although most of the place and business names in this story do/have exist/ed in the real world, this is only an indication that I'm too lazy to make up fictional names and simply resort to using google. Alot. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. Watari's name in this is Quillish because it is in the book and it sounds more like a real name to me than 'Quillsh'. Timeline taken from the manga/book, not the anime. Some scenes taken from the anime. No offence meant to people living in Winchester or anywhere else. The political views of anyone in this piece of fiction is not necessarily shared by the author. Death Note is the property of people who aren't me. No animals were injured in the making of this fic. Watari may or may not have invented a glow in the dark carpet.. Article is provided "as is" without any warranties. Some in-jokes may occur. Not responsible for direct, indirect, incidental or consequential damages resulting from any defect, error or failure to perform. Feedback is appreciated. Thank you very much reading this fic._


	3. hEEL

_A/N: __I didn't think it would be so hard to write L as a child. He's seven. But he's brilliant. But... he's seven! If you've any suggestions for improvement, let's have them!_

--

Chapter 3: hEEL

I was speechless. This child, this skinny barefoot little urchin, was the one who had cracked date the sequence of the mad bombings and commissioned me—the renowned inventor who turned down 90 percent of commissions due to lack of time or, I confess, interest—to make a highly complicated technological device?

He must have seen my reaction, because he said, "I'm not what you expected. This is partly why I had to be sure that I could trust you before we met."

Now that there was more light, I got a much better look at his face. He was very pale but, apart from that, he didn't look typically English. In fact, I couldn't place him squarely in any ethnic pigeon hole. He definitely had something Asian about him, and perhaps something of Eastern Europe too, although it was hard to say. He sounded local, no trace of a foreign accent.

"But... we already met." I said.

"That's true. I immediately had a very good feeling about you, Mr. Wammy."This was beyond odd. Here I was, a small child talking to me like he was my boss. All the while I had to fight the impulse to squat down beside him to get onto his eye-level. Instead, I looked out through the window behind him. It was facing the back garden of the house, a part I had not already seen. There was a small side building there that looked like a garage. Its doors were open, and outside it stood a car. A black car with blacked out windows. My breath caught in my throat. L saw me looking and turned his head. Of course, he could not see out the window from his place on the floor, but he must have guessed what I saw.

"I hope you realise I have to be careful," he said.

"You tested me. You, or Smythe, sent that man to see if I could be trusted. That was a very dirty trick, L."

"Yes. I'm sorry."

He looked suitably ashamed, lowering his head and staring at the floor. I felt a sting of regret. Yes, he was highly intelligent, and quite the little schemer, but he was still just a child.

"Well," I said, "now that's out of the way, I hope we can agree to trust each-other and that there will be no need for further tricks. Agreed?"

"Agreed. Thank you."

He still looked like I had reprimanded him in front of an entire class of his peers. Was it an act? If so, what was the need for it?

"In return you can explain to me why you believe the next attack will be today. I didn't have the time to work out the maths last night, as I had plenty of work to do on the device."

My real reason was of course that I wanted to see how his mind worked, if he was really as brilliant as Smythe had claimed.

"Sure. It really is not complicated. Between the first attack on the 26th of May 1986 and the second on the 14th of January there were 233 days. Between the second and the third—the 7th of June—there were 144 days. Between the third and fourth—September the 4th—there were 89 days. Do you see?"

I had to think about it for a minute, then the answer was apparent. "89 plus 144 equals 233. The time between the fourth and third attack, and that between the third and second add up to that between the second and the first!"

"Precisely. So therefore we can conclude that if we subtract 89 from 144 we get 55, we add that on to the 4th of September, we get October the 29th..."

"Which is today. That's amazing..."

"Not really. Using Fibonacci numbers is a very old numerical trick. I find that they are mostly used by people who want to appear more intelligent than they are. Fibonacci numbers are not mathematically complex, to work them out is child's play..." he gave me a tiny, self-conscious smile, "but their inherent symmetrical appeal lends a sort of glamour of mysticism, or at least simplicity and elegance, to the user. It's a rather cheap trick actually."

"Working this out is still pretty advanced for a... what are you, six? Seven?"

"Nearly eight, but that's hardly relevant. The numbers are the same, no matter the age of the person who counts them."

I had to bite down hard not to laugh at that. He was right, in a way, but it was such a tremendously precocious thing to say. Somehow I managed to swallow my amusement.

"Why do you call yourself L?" I asked.

"Can you keep a secret? Oh, sorry, I already know you can, don't I?"

"Yes."

"It's my name. But the great thing is that nobody will believe it is, and as such is it as good as any alias I could take."

"L is your name? Your full name?"

He shrugged his little shoulders and stuck his thumb between his lips.

"It's all they've ever called me. Apparently, it's on my birth certificate, or so I've been told. Maybe my parents didn't have time to decide on a full name. It really doesn't matter much; it is only a label of identification."

The fact that such a young child should speak so matter-of-factly about his parent's death struck me as intensely sad.

"What happened to your parents?" I asked before I could stop myself.

"I'm told they died in a fire just after I was born."

"I'm sorry."

"Thank you," L said. "It's okay though; I have no recollection of the event."  
I wanted to kneel down on the floor, put my hands on his tiny shoulders and tell him to stop being so bloody pragmatic, but I didn't. Silence settled like a thick blanket over us and the blinding sunshine fell through the window to light up motes of dust on their way to the floor. A sudden shrill noise cut through the moment and L stood up to answer the telephone on the wall. It must not have been put in specifically for him, because he had to stand on his tip-toes to reach it, and the receiver was larger than his whole head.

He listened for a while without interrupting, then thanked the caller and hung up.

"There's been another one," he said, turning to me. "A house on Gordon Road. They don't know if anybody else was in there. We have to wait for the police to finish up the examination of the crime scene."

Another bombing? So, his theory held water. Which reminded me of something I had been about to ask before we got into talking about his age.

"If the attacks are following the reversed Fibonacci sequence, then they will eventually reach a point where they stop, isn't that right?"

L nodded. "Yes. I have worked out that there will be a total of 13 attacks, unless we manage to stop him before that."

"Why are you so sure that there is one man behind this? Might it not be an organisation?"

"It could be, but even if so, they will have a leader. I still think there's a single mad-man behind it. First of all because the bombings seem so pointless. They are not, to him, of course. They are some kind of code, only one that I haven't been able to crack yet." He frowned and clenched his fists, then continued, "But there is no organisation at work today that would seem to benefit from any of these attacks... I hate to say it, but I need more clues. I need him to leave something for me to work with."

L unfolded a map of central Winchester and pulled the cap off a large red marker. Tracing a little finger along the paper, he found the spot of today's explosion and marked it with a red dot. There didn't seem to be any pattern evolving among those red dots.

After marking the spot on the map, L opened a small plastic box and took out some white index cards that he stuck to the map with globs of Blu Tack. The cards had names and dates written on them.

"May 26, 1986, Unidentified male. Car registered in Edinburgh to a William Wells. Reported stolen on the 22nd of May. Mr. Wells not a suspect according police."

"January 14, 1987, Diego Garcia, Tourist from Barcelona, Spain. Rings bell and blows up, killing house owner Marc Molorat instantly.

"June 7, 1987, Henry Wright, Winchester. Witnessed before detonation chasing hikers and screaming hysterically. Claimed to have 'a bulky right leg' – believed to have been explosives.

"September 4, 1987, George Gregory Goldfish, Winchester. Witnesses claim he 'seemed to limp and his left leg appeared to be bulky and irregular like he was hiding something under his trouserleg'."

While I watched, L wrote "October 29, 1987" on a fresh card in his childishly imperfect hand and stuck it to the map on Gordon Rd.

"These people," I said, "Don't appear to have anything to do with each-other. You have two from here, one from Spain and one from Edinburgh..."

"The car was from Edinburgh. We don't know about the driver."

"Well, nevertheless..."

L capped the marker, dropped it and rubbed his eyes with his fists. "I'm hungry," he said.

"As a matter of fact, so am I. I didn't have breakfast, come to think of it."

"I did. Mrs. White, the housekeeper, don't let us eat between meals. She says that if I ate something every time I got hungry, I'd grow up to be a big fat blob that nobody likes. But I don't think she likes me very much as it is... Do you like me, Mr. Wammy?"

I was quite taken aback by the straightforward question but hemmed and hawed and eventually managed to say "Yes, sure I do. You seem like a very nice boy."

His little face lit up, almost like he had lured me into a harmless and playful trap. "Then will you bring me out for ice-cream?" he said.

Cheeky little bugger. I couldn't help but smile at the expectant look on his face though, so I said, "If it's alright with Mr. Smythe."

It was alright with Mr. Smythe, and after getting a coat for L from the children's communal closet, we were walking down the road heading for a small café near the cathedral. I was surprised at how much like a normal child he suddenly was, walking beside me and even holding my hand. For all the world we must have looked like any grandfather and son. With no grandchildren—or even children—of my own, I felt a little awkward and unsure of how to act, but it was still quite nice to have some company for once.

The bell above the door to the café chimed as I pushed the door open. The place was nearly empty, only two men in paint-splattered overalls near the door, finishing their fry-ups. The glass case of the counter showed a wide range of cakes, pastries, sandwiches and many flavours of ice-cream. L seemed almost transfixed by the display. I couldn't blame him, it must have been like Christmas come early. Although, I could imagine what Christmas would be like at the orphanage, under supervision of the no doubt charming Mrs. White. I had been inside enough of those places. A small bowl of powdery, artificial vanilla ice-cream would be the height of festivities in most of them.

I ordered a full English breakfast for myself and waited for L to make his mind up. It took some time, and when several minutes had gone by and he was still staring into the display case with his mittens pressed against the glass, I had to prompt him. "So, what would you like?"

He looked up at me, for the first time meeting my eyes fully. His eyes really were almost abnormally large and it gave him somewhat of an exaggerated cartoonish look, like someone had drew a little orphan child and intentionally made the picture look heartbreaking and cute.

"You mean... I can have whatever I want?"

Well, within reason, I almost added, because he looked like my offer was not at all limited to one of the contents of the case.

"Did you not want ice-cream?"

"Yes. There's lots..."

I couldn't hold back a smile any longer. Decision making definitely seemed to be an issue here, so I thought I'd narrow it down for him.

"Well, pick a flavour then, and we'll have the lady make a sundae." Or we'll be here all day, I didn't say.

"Matcha?" he said and for a full second, my brain stood completely still.

"You want green tea ice cream? I don't think they have that... where did you even learn that word?" I used to live in Tokyo when I was younger, which was the only reason I even knew what he was talking about. Was he trying to be difficult?

"Japan. What's that? It's green." He pointed.

"That's pistachio."

"I'll have that."

Pistachio sundae was probably not their most ordered dessert, but my breakfast arrived then and I nodded at the woman behind the counter. She had been listening and smiling throughout the conversation, and she said "I'll fix something nice for you," and grabbed a glass cup from a shelf.

"You have been to Japan?" I asked L.

"Mhm. I lived with my grandfather there until I was five. He didn't like me at all. He said I exhausted him, and he wanted me to go to school here in England."

School, yes. It was a Thursday, should he not be in school?

"I only have to go every other week," he explained. "Because I learn everything fast. I wanted to just read on my own and sit the A-levels right away, but they won't let me. Says I need the 'social interaction'." He rolled his eyes a little but then the waitress brought his ice cream over and any troubles were forgotten as he laid eyes on the cream and chocolate sauce with the cherry on top.

"A-levels are for 16 year olds... never mind."

I ate my breakfast in silence. Despite—or rather because of—his intelligence, L was going to have to struggle with rules and regulations and people holding him back all his life. It seemed an awful shame. Perhaps I could offer him better opportunities if I was to move him to my own orphanage—the Wammy's House. In fact, perhaps the Wammy's House itself would be of better service to the community if I was to tailor it specifically to take it gifted children. Children who would otherwise never reach their potential. It was definitely worth thinking about.

When we got back to Milesdown, the other children were playing outside under the strict supervision of a man I had not seen before. He frowned when he saw us, but didn't say anything. A boy about twelve ran up and stuck his tongue out at L, who ignored him, although I could feel his grip on my hand tighten. He was very quiet until we got back up to his room, the only place he really seemed able to relax. There was an envelope on the bed, which he grabbed and tore open. I sheet of paper and a photograph fell out. While L read the letter, I picked up the photo and looked at it. It showed some sort of wooden surface, perhaps a table, and it looked like it had been charred and wiped clean again. Something was carved into the wood, a single underlined word in inverse capitalisation. hEEL.

"What on earth is this?" I asked.

L looked up and took the picture from me, holding it delicately by one corner like he didn't want to get his fingerprints all over it.

"It's from the crime scene," he said. "It says someone broke it and carved it into the table. And then blew up. One of the neighbours recognised him, said he looked absolutely terrified when he broke down the door. Apparently, his name is Arthur Larbig. Was."

I had no idea what to say, and I didn't really have time to say anything, because L looked up and said, "Mr. Wammy, I need to think about the case now, and I would like you to start work on the device, if at all possible. This is going to get dangerous for both of us, and I would like us to use an alias for you as well when dealing with any outsiders or the police. May I call you Watari?"

"Um, yes. Why that name?"

"I like that name."

He was already writing the new information onto the card on the map, leaving me standing there, lost for words again.

"Fine. I will come back tomorrow then..." I said.

"Please wait until I contact you unless there is something urgent. The less time you spend here, the better. The next attack will not be until December the 12th so you have until then to complete the device."

"..."

I turned to leave, opening the door, and he spoke again. "Watari. Thank you for the ice cream."

"You're welcome... L."

Feeling strangely deflated, I headed back to my workshop and another long night's work.

--

_Disclaimer: Please note that, although most of the place and business names in this story do/have exist/ed in the real world, this is only an indication that I'm too lazy to make up fictional names and simply resort to using google. Alot. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. Watari's name in this is Quillish because it is in the book and it sounds more like a real name to me than 'Quillsh'. Timeline taken from the manga/book, not the anime. Some scenes taken from the anime. No offence meant to people living in Winchester or anywhere else. The political views of anyone in this piece of fiction is not necessarily shared by the author. Death Note is the property of people who aren't me. No animals were injured in the making of this fic. Watari may or may not have inve__nted a glow in the dark carpet. Article is provided "as is" without any warranties. Some in-jokes may occur. Not responsible for direct, indirect, incidental or consequential damages resulting from any defect, error or failure to perform. Feedback is appreciated. Thank you very much reading this fic._


	4. Halloween Hospital

_A/N: I apologise for the low L content in this chapter, but this is necessary info for the rest of the story to make sense. I promise I'll make up for it in the next chapter!_

--

Chapter 4: Halloween Hospital (no, that's not a person's name ;) )

And today, sixteen years later, Ryuuzaki takes a few steps into the room, stopping with his hands in his pockets a few feet from my chair. He is looking at me like he is seeing me for the first time, or...

I don't get up. Outside, the rain continues to fall.

On the morning of the 30th of October 1987, the device was coming along nicely, but I was still waiting for parts to arrive so there was not much I could do with it. The thought of turning the Wammy's house into a sanctuary for gifted children was still in my mind, and by dinnertime I had decided that I would make it so. There was no guessing what L would say if I was to offer him a place, but regardless of that, there would be other children who would fit in there. Of course those children who were already there would be allowed to stay until they were adopted or old enough to leave.

After a phone call to Roger, the manager of the place in my absence, I found myself at a bit of a loose end and paced around the workshop, bored and listless. I wondered how L got on with the case, and why he didn't want my help with it. Two heads were better than one, even if that one was particularly bright.

I tried to settle down and read a book, and when that didn't work, the newspaper, but my thoughts kept wandering. Who was L really? Who had his parents been? Why did I care? But the thought would not leave me alone. Maybe it was time I did some detective work of my own.

L had told me he was almost eight, which would put his birthdate somewhere in '79. He had also told me that he had lived in Japan until he was five, which meant that he would have to be listed in immigration files for '84 or '85. Hacking Immigration Services database was not something I would normally do, but since I knew that my breach would not be detected, and I was not going to use the information in any immoral way, I took it upon myself to do so. The list of boys with birthdates in '79 that had come from Japan to Winchester during '84 and '85 was fairly sizeable, with adoptions and families moving, but when I narrowed it down to those who were already registered as British citizens the list was not long. Seventeen names in all, and out of those, only one did not have names of parents listed. When I pulled up the document, I knew I had found him. The address was listed as Milesdown Children's home, and the first name was indeed simply 'L'. L Lawliet. I closed the connection and searched the hospital birth records. The result had me sitting back in my chair with an uncomfortable tightness in my throat. He had not lied when he said he was nearly eight. His eight birthday was tomorrow. And had I known that date, I would have guessed his parents' fate. Halloween Hospital.

The Halloween Hospital attack of '79 was one of the biggest atrocities of the third world war. Suicide bombings had occurred frequently throughout the War, but they had mainly targeted government buildings and military installations. The blast and the subsequent raging fire in the Royal Hampshire County hospital that had claimed over a hundred lives on the eve of the 31st of October 1979. Although none of the opposing countries had claimed responsibility for purposefully targeting a hospital already full of casualties from the very same war, the reaction of the English people were suitably predictable. A fury towards all people from any of the involved countries, a massive increase in military volunteers and, some speculated, the sheer drive for revenge that had the war drag on for nearly a year longer than it had to. All in all, a dark day for all parties considered.

The hospital records from RHCH were understandably incomplete. Their computer system had gone up in flames and back-up records were less than up to date. I could not find any traces of L's parents, but I did find some personnel records that gave me the name of a midwife who had been working that day, survived, and was still with the hospital. Her name was Mary Montrose and a quick call to the hospital confirmed that she was working today but would get off at five o'clock and was willing to meet me for a chat in the hospital cafeteria.

The Royal Hampshire County Hospital was a marbled building of the old and new. The parts that had been destroyed in the Halloween Hospital attack had been replaced by newer structures, rather hastily built and not much thought had been given to matching them with the older parts of the building still in place.

I met Mrs Montrose in the cafeteria as planned. She was the very archetype of a midwife, fiftysomething, sturdy, with an unflappable calm that bordered on the sedated. She sat down heavily, puffed and complained about her feet, and sipped her coffee. When I asked her about 'that day' she leaned back on her chair and started painting an all too vivid picture for me.

"The whole building shook," she said, "and all the lights went out. I was down in the SCBU—the department for premature babies—and you know, lots of them incubators have oxygen pumps that run on electricity, so you can imagine there were some tense moments before the generators kicked in. I stood there in the dark, clutching this half-an-hour-old baby and felt the plaster dust rain down on me. We had no idea what had happened. When I got upstairs, it was a mess. Just rubble; the whole wing. Most of the parents of those kids downstairs were gone. And to think that we'd been planning to move the incubators upstairs..."

She clutched her coffee cup with both hands. I could understand how traumatic those memories must still be. Like with me and some things that happened in the war, you kept the memories at the back of your mind and that's how you could live with them. Times like these, they came back, no less strong for the time that had passed in between. The smoke and the heat. The running and the screaming. The utter confusion as the landmarks you had used to orient yourself with vanished or turned to indistinguishable ruins. The sight of your enemy through a crosshair, the adrenaline surging in your veins and your heart—my heart—going crazy with the knowledge that I was about to take someone's life.

"I'm looking for the names of the parent of this one boy," I said. "I run a children's home for gifted kids, and he would definitely fit that description. I suspect that his parents perished in that attack, but I haven't been able to confirm..."

"I see." She took a bite of her sandwich and chewed almost mechanically. "A lot of those records are gone. Do you know anything about them?"

"Well, the mother would have been Japanese, I think. The father... I suppose his surname would have been Lawliet..."

"Are you serious?" Her face shone up with unexpected recognition. "Yeah, I remember them. Do you remember I said I stood in the SCBU with a child when the blast hit? That was their kid! Her name was... Mariko, I think. The father was Liam. He was some kind of intelligence operative in the army, and they had met when he was stationed somewhere out east..." The smile on her face rapidly faltered. "Of course they both died. The child only made it because he was premature and I took him downstairs. Ironic in a way, isn't it?"

So that's what L stood for. Their baby had come earlier than expected and they had not been ready with a name, and so put the father's initial and surname on the records. They thought they had time to give him a real name later, but there had been no time.

I thanked her for the information and left the hospital. It was six o'clock in the evening, and although L had said that he did not want me to contact him, I made my way over to Milesdown. In reality, it was Mr. Smythe I wanted to talk to.

Darkness was falling as I reached the big red-brick house. Lights burned in the windows, their warm light falling over the lawn and contrasting the first taste of winter on the autumn air. There might be frost tonight.

As I approached the door, something moved in a shadow over by the neat hedge. I froze. I got a piercing feeling of someone looking at me from the darkness. Quick-flash memories from the war, of darkened streets in foreign towns, crawling with spies and trigger happy soliders, had my adrenaline coursing in no time. I sharpened my eyes—which had taken many sniper targets—and could just barely make out the silhouette of a man.

"Who's there?" I called, and the shadow moved in a strange, stiff-legged gait towards me.

He stepped into the cone of the porch-light and I recognised him. It was the man who had been watching over the children as I brought L back from the café. He was about my age, with bushy grey eyebrows and a hounds-tooth chequered cap pulled down over his forehead. In his hand he was holding a pair of pruning shears.

"Only me, guv'nor." He had a pronounced northern accent, bordering on the Scottish. He reached for the door handle and held the door open for me.

"Thank you. I don't believe we've met. My name is Wammy."

I know that L had asked me to use a fake name, but I was quite well known around town, and to start lying to the locals about my identity seemed doomed to end up in confusion and disgrace.

"Fowler," he mumbled, shaking my hand with his gardening glove still on.

I walked into the only slightly warmer hall and Fowler stepped after me with his odd limp. It made me nervous, to tell the truth, but neither of his legs seemed bulkier than the other and I couldn't see anything being strapped to them. Besides, L would have predicted the date for the next bombing, and it wouldn't be today. I relaxed.

"Getting cold, isn't it?"

"Sure is. The old arthur-itis is acting up," he nodded sullenly at his legs.

Arthritis. Of course, that would explain it. Maybe the war had left me more paranoid than I had first thought.

I nodded goodbye to Fowler and headed for Smythe's office. My knock at the door produced a rather annoyed 'who is it?'.

"It's Quillish Wammy."

It took almost thirty seconds before the door opened and Smythe's face appeared.

"Oh," he said. "I had no idea you were coming tonight."

"I wasn't going to, but I need to talk to you. About L."

He nodded and stepped back from the door. There was no fire in the fireplace tonight, despite the chill in the air. Smythe sat down behind his desk and waited for me to start.

"Well... I don't really know how to breach the subject, but... The thing is that I also run a children's home. It's for gifted children, children who need..." I hesitated, looking for the right word. It seemed like nothing I could say wouldn't insult this establishment. "...special treatment, more challenging, um, tasks and an environment where their full potential can be realised."

Smythe didn't get offended, but gave me a slow smile.

"Well, Mr. Wammy, I like to think that we do challenge our children to live up to their potential here as well. Take L, for example. He gets to practice his... what should we call them, detective skills, perhaps? How many other children's homes could you imagine would allow him to cooperate with local police?"

"Yes, that's true. Still... I can't help but feel he would be better off somewhere where he could..." Eat, was the word on the tip of my tongue, but I bit it back. "...read and study at his own pace."

"Oh, but he can. We have quite an adequate library. And there is a computer he can use whenever he wants."

"That's great, but I still think that he would be better off in a place with... more children like him."

"Mr. Wammy, there are no children like him."

Check mate. There was nothing I could say to that. But there was one thing I was curious about.

"Mr. Smythe, how did L contact the Winchester police department? I mean, how did they come to believe that a seven-year-old could be of benefit to their investigation? He only worked out the sequence of the bombings _after_ he was already cooperating with the police, am I right?"

Mr. Smythe frowned, almost unnoticeably, but it was there.

"If you must know, it went through me," he said. "I have contacts in the police department. Well, I am a retired policeman, in fact."

"I see."

That would not have been hard to find out on my own. And that was probably the only reason he was telling me.

"Well," I said, standing and stretching, "thank you for your time anyway. I suppose there is really no point in us even discussing this before I have talked to L about it."

Mr. Smythe stood up too. "No, I think it would be better if you didn't say anything to him about it. Especially not now when he's working on this case. It would only distract him."

"But, I need to give him the choice. If he wants to move to Wammy's House, surely, that's up to him?"

"Mr. Wammy. L is eight years old. He might have the intelligence of a grown man, but in the eyes of the law, he is still a minor. And I am—to all intents and purposes—his legal guardian."

Well, that was just a plain lie. Certainly the grandfather in Japan was the legal guardian. L had told me it was his grandfather who had wanted him to go to school in England. But if Smythe had set his mind on being difficult, I would not bother arguing with him. At least not until after I had spoken to L.

I left Smythes office and climbed the stairs to the top floor, remembering the path to L's room. No doubt Smythe would be very upset if he found out I was going to drop in on his pet genius unannounced. But, I suppose I was being unfair. He probably did have L's best interests at heart. So did I. We were as bad as each other for being so taken with the boy's brilliance.

I knocked on L's door. At first there was no reply. Perhaps he was not in. He could be in the library that Smythe had boasted about. I was about to leave when the door swung silently open. L stood in the doorway, his posture a little slumped from crouching on the floor for so long. In his hand he held a map of the world. His eyes had dark circles underneath them, like he hadn't slept for days. He stared at me like he was afraid of something.

"What is it?" I asked.

"It doesn't add up," he said. "There's fourteen, not thirteen. One's missing and I don't know which one. It doesn't add up!"

-

_Disclaimer: Please note that, although most of the place and business names in this story do/have exist/ed in the real world, this is only an indication that I'm too lazy to make up fictional names and simply resort to using google. Alot. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. Watari's name in this is Quillish because it is in the book and it sounds more like a real name to me than 'Quillsh'. Timeline taken from the manga/book, not the anime. Some scenes taken from the anime. No offence meant to people living in Winchester or anywhere else. The political views of anyone in this piece of fiction is not necessarily shared by the author. Death Note is the property of people who aren't me. No animals were injured in the making of this fic. Watari may or may not have inve__nted a glow in the dark carpet. Article is provided "as is" without any warranties. Some in-jokes may occur. Not responsible for direct, indirect, incidental or consequential damages resulting from any defect, error or failure to perform. Feedback is appreciated. Thank you very much reading this fic._


	5. Fourteen

_A/N: If anyone spots the tiny shout-out to one of my favourite films (and books) in this, you can ask for a prize! (and get it, within reason :D)_

_--_

Chapter 5: Fourteen

"Okay, calm down. What doesn't add up?" I said, searching his distraught little face for clues.

Behind him the room was a mess. Books, papers, maps, pens, a calculator, strewn all over the place. On the desk were some dirty dishes and balled up jumper, very much like the one he was wearing. Like someone had nagged at him to change his clothes, and he had done it as speedily as possible to shut them up.

"hEEL," he said, snatching the photograph of the carving in the table and holding it up in front of my face, upside down, "is a number. 7334. Do you see it?"

His voice was very insistent. Hesitation on my part would not be welcome. Luckily, I did see it.

"Yes," I said.

"7334 is a clue. Took me a while to figure out what to, but can you see what that is?"

He pointed to something in the picture, almost out of shot. A round, light-coloured something, badly focussed. I peered closer, but was still unsure. I shook my head.

"It's a globe. And it's not burnt, can you see that? It's not burn, so that means it was put there later. After the explosion. By whoever took the picture."  
"I see."

"Yes, so 7334 and the globe gave me the map. Kilometres. That's what they are. If you increase the distances between the bombsites by 7334 kilometres, you get a world scale map. This."

He threw the photo on the floor and held up his map of the world with both hands in front of me. There were some red dots scattered on it.

"Do you see?" he said, "There are five because there have been five bombs but there should be fourteen all in all, but there won't be, not according to the Fibonacci number, there will only be thirteen, so which on is he leaving out?"

He was staring at me like he could read my mind, and the answer would be in there. I stepped into the messy little room and closed the door.

"L, you're going to have to slow down. What is fourteen? Fourteen of what?"

"British Overseas Territories. That's what the map shows. That's what the clues point to."

"Why?"

L slumped down on the floor, pulling his knees up to his chin and leaning his forehead against them, hiding his face in a cascade of black hair.

"I don't know," he muttered. Not knowing was apparently an unfamiliar and painful sensation. "But unless I figure it out, there are going to be more of these. And if he gets to thirteen, or fourteen, before I can figure it out..." He lifted his head and stared in front of him, like he was focussing on the future, "...he'll win."

"Well, not to mention more people will die," I said.

L looked up at me, his face blank for a second, then said, "Yes, that too. But people die all the time."

I could feel my chin drop. I was literally gawping at him. Then I understood. His parents. Once you know your parents have been killed, whether you're old enough to remember them or not, how much are stranger's lives worth to you? What is your view on life and death? A sense of morals founded on a deep emotional connection to the rest of human kind? Or a game of numbers, a puzzle to be solved?

I sat down heavily on the hard little bed. From the very first time I laid eyes on this child, I had thought that he was lonely. I had not even imagined how profound that loneliness was.

"Ok, so which ones correspond to the attacks that have already took place?" I asked.

He seemed to pull himself together and gain a new focus. He pulled a book up to the map with the notes stuck to it and pointed out the locations for me.

"The first one; Turks and Caicos Islands. I still don't know why the stolen car from Edinburgh. That bothers me.

"The second; British Indian Ocean Territory. Diego Garcia was the name of the man who exploded, the Spanish Tourist, and it is also the name of the base there, their capital city if you will. This proves that the mastermind behind this kidnap people and strap explosives to them, which of course explains why they were running around in a panic. We are going to need that trigger interruption device, so I hope you are working on it."

He didn't look at me, just stared at the map with uncanny intensity.

"I will hopefully get the parts and start testing tomorrow," I said.

"Good. Now, the third one, here." He pointed at the map. " Sovereign Base Areas of Akrotiri and Dhekelia. Henry Wright, witnesses claim the explosives were strapped to his _right_ leg, where as in the other cases they always say the left. The motto of Akrotiri and Dhekelia is 'Dieu et mon droit', which explains both the choice of him and the leg."

"God and my right? Wright... yes, I suppose it does. Well done..."

I was in awe, but he just gave me a strange little quirk of the lips that was not even a smile and went on. "The fourth; Cayman Islands. Georgetown is their capital, and we know the victim's name was George Gregory Goldfish.

"Fifth. This must have taken some work..." He looked almost reluctantly impressed, but that eerie sharp focus was still there. "Arthur Larbig. Art—to his friends, perhaps—Larbig. Reverse it..."

"Big—gib--lar—ral—Gibraltar! Is it, is it Gibraltar?"'

"It is. Imagine, going to the trouble of finding a man with that exact name, kidnap him and plant explosives on him only to force him to break into a house and carve the number 7334 upside down into a table. What does that tell you, Watari?"

"That he's crazy."

"He's not crazy, but he's dangerous. He's very clever and that's what's going to make it hard to catch him."

"But don't you agree that kidnapping people and... exploding them only to create some kind of twisted puzzle... is insane?"

L looked at me like the question itself was a puzzle. Then he said, "Immoral, probably. Insane... yes, I suppose so."

That pause, that bit before he said 'yes', that was censorship, plain as day. He might well grow to be a brilliant liar, but he wasn't one yet. He had wanted to say something else, perhaps 'no' or 'why?' but adapted his answer to what he thought I expected or wanted. And, just like that, I decided that I would bring him to Wammy's House, no matter what the cost. I would bring him, because having him raised haphazardly by the state, or people who didn't understand how special he was, that could be very dangerous. Without the proper guidance, L would be _dangerous_.

"Does it tell you anything else?" he asked me.

"I'm sorry, it doesn't."

"Like you said; he's creating a puzzle. A puzzle that is... very likely... aimed at someone. He wants to see if anyone can solve it. He's testing..."

L stared at the map. Reached out and fumbled for his red marker without taking his eyes off it. I reached down and picked it up, placed it in his roving hand.

"If you compare the map of the world with the map of Winchester, the rest of the BOTs will be..."

He grabbed a ruler and a calculator and started plotting them out. I could only watch and marvel at how easy the process seemed to him. Some time passed with neither of us speaking, the map had fourteen red dots in various locations around town. L drew Xs through the ones that had already happened and turned his head up to look at me.

"If we can figure out what order these are going to happen in, then we'll know where he is going to strike next. But, like I said, there are fourteen BOTs and the Fibonacci sequence runs out after thirteen..."

"First, the scottish car... of course, if the driver was ever identified, that'd help... second, Diego Garcia. Third, Wright/Right/Droit... Fourth, Georgetown. Fifth, Gibraltar... I don't get it. The clues are all mixed up."

"Perhaps you need to sleep on it?"

I realised that while we had been talking, it had gone pitch black outside. My watch showed nearly eight. I couldn't believe time had gone so quickly.

"I can't sleep until I figure it out," he said.

"But you look so tired. When was the last time you slept?"

"I don't know, it doesn't matter."

But it clearly did matter. He was getting whiny and fidgety, like any young child when they got exhausted.

"Have you eaten then?"

At least he looked up from his book at this.

"No... it was shepherd's pie. I hate shepherd's pie. It's not pie at all; pie is supposed to be nice."

I fought a smile. "Well, how about I go and see if I can rustle up some real pie?"

"You can do that? You can get me proper pie? Now? When the kitchen's closed and all the shops are closed?"

Was that disbelief I saw?

"Not all shops are closed. You just need to know where to go. So, do you fancy it? 12th of December is a long way away yet."

He hesitated. Looked at the map. Looked at me. Looked at the book. Looked back at me. Finally he said, almost grudgingly like I was the child and he was indulging me; "Thank you, that would be nice."

"While I'm gone, will you promise to try and let it go? Sometimes thinking about something else is the best way to make the answer come to you. And if we are going to eat in here, would you please tidy up a bit?"

He looked sceptic to say the least but peered at me from under his mass of hair and nodded a little. I made a mental note in my internal L case file; he didn't like being told what to do, but would allow it given the right incentive. Good to know.

The late-open convenience shop I had in mind would sell the food that had not been sold during the day, in their attached, now closed, tourist café. Their pie was one of the best in town. The fact that I knew so much about cafés and restaurants made me fleetingly sad. I would have preferred to know about family dinners and how to cook, but my life had not taken me in that direction. No family. Second best; pie. We all become orphans eventually, if we live long enough.

When I got back, I decided to sneak in. Smythe would not appreciate me coming around at this time, especially not after our earlier conversation. I had left the front door unlocked on my way out, and apparently nobody had checked on it since. Tip-toeing through the large dark hall, I felt like some kind of spy on a mission. It was not a pleasant feeling, but brought to mind the deceit and distrust of the war years. How many people had been irrevocably traumatised by living in constant fear? How many minds had been stuck inside the nightmare of constantly expecting the world around them to erupt in flames? I shook the thoughts away. The war was over. Tonight was a still cold night in a sleepy Winchester, and my only mission was to eat some pie and try to make a young child smile. It could have been worse. It could have been a lot worse.

L looked genuinely surprised when I came back and put the box on the ground next to him. He opened the box, poked at the shortbread pastry crust inside, and finally took one of the pre-cut slices and stuffed in in his mouth. His mouth was a little too small though, and the whole thing looked rather comical. I chuckled at him and he shot me an indecipherable look.

"Mfhmmffhm!" he said.

"Oh really?"

He chewed vigorously to clear his mouth, then repeated, "I didn't think you would find any. I'm impressed."

"I told you I would. And what did I ask you to do?"

The floor was just as cluttered with stuff as it had been when I left. L looked a little sheepish but, as he grabbed another slice of pie, he pushed a couple of stacked books in under the bed with one foot. It made very little difference to the mess. I shook my head but said nothing and sat down on the bed, bent down and took a piece of pie.

"L, do you like living here?"

His mouth was full again, so he just shrugged his shoulders.

"If I told you there was another place for you, a place with other children like you—gifted children. Would you be interested in moving?"

"Well," he swallowed and licked his fingers, "At the moment, Mr. Smythe is my go-between with the police. I need him to get access to the case files."

"Oh. I thought he simply set up the contact. You mean that all your dealings with the police still go through him?"

"Mhm." L yawned. That was a first. "Watari, did you fight in the war?" he asked, unexpectedly.

"Um... yes. As a matter of fact, I did. Why do you ask?"

"Will you tell me about it? I think the bomber is someone who has been to war. Probably still thinks he is. I need to understand..."

And so I found myself sitting in a tiny, cold room with a piece of pie in one hand, telling the world's smartest seven-year-old about my experiences during the war. I told him things that I had not talked to anyone about and found it astonishingly therapeutic. Losing all track of time, I told him about sniper training, about damp boots and hard beds and lost comrades. When I finally snapped out of my reverie, it was well after midnight, and L's head had slumped down to rest on his knees. He was asleep.

I got up and for a moment stood there, looking at the sleeping child, not knowing what to do. Should I wake him and tell him to go to bed? Should I leave him alone to get some much needed rest? Eventually, I pulled back the covers and lifted his feather light body into

the bed. He didn't wake up, just curled up and stuck his thumb in his mouth. I pulled the cover over him and lifted the box with the rest of the pie onto the little table so he wouldn't step in it when he got up.

"Goodnight, L," I murmured quietly, "And happy birthday."

--

_Disclaimer: Please note that, although most of the place and business names in this story do/have exist/ed in the real world, this is only an indication that I'm too lazy to make up fictional names and simply resort to using google. Alot. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. Watari's name in this is Quillish because it is in the book and it sounds more like a real name to me than 'Quillsh'. Timeline taken from the manga/book, not the anime. Some scenes taken from the anime. No offence meant to people living in Winchester or anywhere else. The political views of anyone in this piece of fiction is not necessarily shared by the author. Death Note is the property of people who aren't me. No animals were injured in the making of this fic. Watari may or may not have inve__nted a glow in the dark carpet. Article is provided "as is" without any warranties. Some in-jokes may occur. Not responsible for direct, indirect, incidental or consequential damages resulting from any defect, error or failure to perform. Feedback is appreciated. Thank you very much reading this fic._


	6. Time

Chapter 6: Time

The next day, I got to Milesdown around noon. The children were out running around in the garden, watched over by the stern Fowler, who was leaning on a cane in a rather intimidating manner. L was not there, they told me, but they were vague about where exactly he had gone. I was told to leave the box with the birthday cake I had bought on a table in the kitchen and the infamous Mrs. White told me L would get it when he got back. Somehow, I didn't believe her.

The autumn cooled into winter and the nights got longer and darker. I worked on the device, which turned out to be a great deal more complicated than I had thought. For weeks, I didn't hear from L or Mr. Smythe. When I called, they kept telling me L was fine but busy and the few times I made the trip over, Mr. Smythe would make up some excuse about L being in school. I knew what this was about, of course; they didn't want to risk me recruiting him to Wammy's House.

Time slipped away at an awful pace, as time sometimes has a tendency to do, and I woke one morning and realised to my horror that it was already the 10th of December. The next attack would take place in another two days. I pulled my winter coat on and headed over to Milesdown, determined not to take no for an answer.

The young woman who had let me in on my first visit opened the door. She got something nervous in her eyes when she recognised me. What was going on?

"I'm here to see L," I said. "I know he's here. I'm not leaving until I speak to him."

"Um... I'll get Mr. Smythe..."

"Don't bother. I know the way."

I walked past her and up the stairs while she hollered feebly after me. My heart was beating hard and fast. They were up to something!

When I reached L's door, I was so wound up that I didn't even bother to knock, just grabbed the handle and tried to open the door. It was locked, but there was a key in the lock on the outside. Maybe he wasn't in after all. Just to make sure, I unlocked the door and opened it.

L was in. He was sitting on the bed, knees pulled up as usual, and on his face was a look of such fury that I almost took a step back. His dark eyes were red-rimmed, like he had been crying, and his hands were clenched into tiny fists. When he saw that it was me, he leapt off the bed and ran to me, flinging his arms around my waist and practically head-butted me in the stomach in the process. He was talking, but his words were muffled by my jumper. I had to push him out to arm's length to hear what he was saying.

"It's not fair! They're not being fair! They told me I could take the case, and now they're saying no! I was this close! And they won't let me..."

He was trembling with rage and had red blotches of colour on his otherwise so pale cheeks, like he was running a fever. This was one very angry little boy.

"Ok, calm down," I said. "Take a deep breath."

He did, gasping for air like a fish on dry land, and finally calmed down.

"What's happened?" I asked.

"Mr. Smythe says I'm not allowed to work on the case anymore. He says it's become and obsession, an 'unhealthy' obsession even. But isn't it more unhealthy to let a criminal like this go on doing whatever he wants without being stopped? Isn't it, Watari?"

That name had really stuck with him. But, he was right, I supposed. I nodded.

"And I was so close to solving where the next one would be! They took my research away! They said I wasn't sleeping and I was eating the wrong things and they... they took all my clues! And it's the 12th on Saturday!"

He stomped his foot, an expression of such unadulterated frustration that I had to bite the insides of my cheeks not to smile. That wouldn't have gone down well at all.

"Where did they put it? All your notes and maps?"

"In the library somewhere. When I tried to look for it, they locked me in here! I haven't been able to do anything for over a month!"

"I came by on your birthday. They told me you weren't in..."

His little face was a storm cloud. I didn't know what to say. It was pointless to say that I would talk to Smythe, because I knew he wouldn't listen to me. There was only one other thing I could think of.

"I'll tell you what I'll do," I said, "I'll call your grandfather and talk to him. I'll explain everything about Wammy's House and how they're treating you here... maybe he can help. Do you have his number?"

"I have it, but I doubt he'll care." L was pouting, but he had calmed down a lot. He pulled out a small notebook from the desk and flipped it to a page with a handwritten name in Japanese followed by a number.

"I'll go down and use the phone."

I went downstairs, prepared to face the wrath of Mr. Smythe. Surprisingly enough, there was nobody there; the hall was empty. Strange. After all the trouble they had gone through to keep me from seeing him, now it seemed they didn't care anymore.

There was a telephone on a small table by the foot of the stairs, and I dialled the number in the book, feeling some petty little vengeance at the long-distance charges I would cause. The signals went through on the other end for a long time, and eventually a woman answered and told me that L's grandfather was in the hospital. He was not expected to ever leave it, she said. He was in his last days.

I got the number to the hospital off her, thanking the circumstances of my life that I had ended up fluent in Japanese, and sat down on the steps with the telephone in my lap. After speaking to three other people, I was eventually put in touch with the old man, who in few words made it very clear that he had no interest in L whatsoever, but if I did, he was happy to help. He must have been pretty senile or old-fashioned not to even question my motives, or hesitate at handing over his grandchild in the care of a stranger. Again. Only one small problem; for any legal papers to be signed, it seemed I would have to come see him in person. In Japan.

I hung up and put the phone back on the table. Some whirlwind I had let myself get sucked into. Where was my simple bachelor's life with mechanics and science? With a strange, churning feeling inside, I walked back up to L's room. Which was empty.

I hadn't locked him in, how could I have done that? I could hazard a guess as to where he had gone. The library.

As soon as I opened the door, I knew I had been right. L was sitting on the floor of the library (which was not very big or impressive at all, only a living-room with three dusty bookshelves and an unlit fireplace). He had found his notes and was poring over the map with a stressed look on his face.

"Watari!" he said, grabbing an encyclopaedia and scribbling frenetically on the notes. "Look, look! First—never mind the car—capitol of Turks and Caicos Islands is Cockburn town. Second, Diego Garcia still. Third; capitol Episkopi Cantonment. Fourth, Georgetown, fifth Gibraltar... they're in alphabetical order! I was dismissing that because of Adamstown, which hasn't been yet – but maybe that's the missing one... I don't like it, but if it is so, the next one would be... Hamilton. Bermuda. On the 12th of December. Right... here." He pointed at the map, somewhere high up of Clifton Road.

"That is amazing, L. You've done it! You've figured out when and where the next bomb will go off!"

"Yes. Yes, but how am I going to tell the police? Mr. Smythe..."

"I'll tell them."

A voice from the doorway. Mr. Smythe stood there with his arms crossed over his chest. He didn't look happy, but neither did he look as angry as I had feared.

"Of course I don't approve of what you've done," he said to me. "I wanted to end this destructive obsession that L has developed. It was supposed to be a challenge, a way to exercise his intellect, but it ended up having a detrimental effect on his health. He wasn't sleeping, he wasn't eating properly. I had to do something; it was for his own good."

I couldn't really fault him for that. He turned to L and said, "If you have found out useful information, of course I will notify the police. I'm not looking to hinder the investigation for the sake of it, you know. If you didn't get so absorbed, we wouldn't have this problem."

L only glared at him.

"I understand," I said. "I'm going out of the country for a little while..."

Oh, was I? I had not even truly made my mind up until the words escaped my mouth. L looked up at me, all anger vanished from his face. Now there was only quiet surprise, like when I had told him he could have whatever ice-cream he wanted.

"You don't need me here on the 12th anyway, do you?" I said. "The device isn't finished yet, and what could I do?"

"No, it's fine," L said. "But... you won't be gone too long, will you?"

I felt a strange tugging at my insides. I was not used to anyone caring about my comings and goings, and the look on his face... it made me fill up with some unfamiliar emotion. Was this how parents felt? But I wasn't a parent; not to him, not to anybody.

"I won't be long," I said, pushing the sentimentality firmly back down.

"Oh, little holiday away from the English winter?" Mr. Smythe said, suddenly pleasant as you like. He was delighted to see the back of me, no doubt.

"Something like that. I'll see both of you when I get back."

"I don't doubt it, Mr. Wammy."

L was back to inspecting his notes, so I left him to it. Already the same night had I booked a ticket to Tokyo. I hardly knew myself, but I was almost certain I liked the person I had turned into.

_A/N: This chapter was another necessary set up. I was going to write Watari going to Japan to talk to the old man, but I doubt that it'd be very exciting so I'll skip it. Next chapter – Wammy's House! Oh, and then I was going to send L and Watari to London to justify those few seconds of the anime when you see Big Ben, but I have a sneaking suspicion that's only in there because some Japanese person has confused Westminster with Winchester. Easily done. So, I can't be arsed sending them to London just for those few frames, beautifully drawn as they are. :D_

--

_Disclaimer: Please note that, although most of the place and business names in this story do/have exist/ed in the real world, this is only an indication that I'm too lazy to make up fictional names and simply resort to using google. Alot. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. Watari's name in this is Quillish because it is in the book and it sounds more like a real name to me than 'Quillsh'. Timeline taken from the manga/book, not the anime. Some scenes taken from the anime. No offence meant to people living in Winchester or anywhere else. The political views of anyone in this piece of fiction is not necessarily shared by the author. Death Note is the property of people who aren't me. No animals were injured in the making of this fic. Watari may or may not have inve__nted a glow in the dark carpet. Article is provided "as is" without any warranties. Some in-jokes may occur. Not responsible for direct, indirect, incidental or consequential damages resulting from any defect, error or failure to perform. Feedback is appreciated. Thank you very much reading this fic._


	7. Arrivals

_A/N: Warning - __I go off on a little tangent (or Watari does :D) in one part here, but after having read that one-shot manga issue with Near that takes place years later—don't know what it's called—but for those who know what I'm talking about... let's say there was an issue that needed clearing up. Yeah. But first, on with the story!_

_--_

Chapter 7: Arrivals

I returned to Winchester on the 22nd of December. The processes in Japan had moved slower than expected, due to the poor health of L's grandfather. Some days, he would not see me at all. Some days, he only wanted to talk about old times, old wars. The wheels of the legal system turned efficiently enough, but the papers I needed him to sign stayed in my briefcase for too long while he stalled and talked about his life. Perhaps he was making sure I had good intentions, but I think he was just happy to have someone listen. Finally, on the 19th, he gave in and signed the legal documents. And just like that, I was the legal guardian of the strangest and smartest little boy I had even met. Now all that remained was to let him know.

It was snowing as I walked up the driveway to Milesdown, the flakes huge and grey against the darkening sky. I was jet-lagged and tired, walking like in a dream. I had almost come straight from the airport, only stopping by mine to drop off my suitcase. The streetlights were coming on and turning the city into a white-dusted fairyland. I could smell the winter.

The young woman whose name I still did not know opened the door and this time she didn't try to stop me, but simply stood aside as I stamped my feet and beat the snow off my coat. The hall was characteristically cold and dark and the woman walked off without waiting for me. I took my hat off and made my way to Smythe's office.

The fire was lit and Smythe seemed inconvenienced but not too upset to see me.

"Did you go anywhere nice?" he asked.

"Japan."

"I see." He nodded with resigned understanding.

"Yes. I'm sure this will not come as a surprise to you." I took the large manila envelope out of my inner pocket, opened it and put the legal documents and the transfer papers for Wammy's House on the desk. Smythe hardly spared them a glance, just shook his head with disappointment.

"I hope you know what you're getting yourself into," he said. "L is talented and intelligent, but he's also... he can be a very difficult child."

"I know. I promise I will take good care of him."  
"Well... then I guess there is not much more I can say. Good luck Mr. Wammy. You're going to need it."  
He handed the documents back to me and busied himself with some other paperwork. It was clear that he meeting was over. The mood was surreal, or perhaps it was just the jet-lag affecting me. I went up to L's room, with no plan of what to say, knocked and opened it.

L was sitting on the floor, as usual, with his maps and papers. He looked up as I opened the door, and I could see the dark circles under his eyes had grown bigger. He had not slept in a while.

"Watari," he said in a serious tone, "There was another bomb. The police could do nothing. It was another car bomb, but I was right. It followed the pattern. Hamilton Harris was the driver. Hamilton is the capital of Bermuda. Right time, right place, right corresponding territory. He drove up to the location and then the car exploded. Nothing left to interrogate. How are the police ever going to catch the person behind this?"

He looked dejected. Pale, shaggy-haired, small. Creased clothes, huge eyes. There was nothing I could say to help.

"L. I have met with your grandfather. He has... he has signed the necessary documents..."  
"You have adopted me?"

What was that expression on his face? Disbelief? Hope? Disdain? Anxiety?

"Uh... no. Not quite. I'm your legal guardian now. That's... I mean, it's a little different in legal terms, but I suppose... much the same in... well, practical terms."  
It was unbelievable how hard this was. I had talked my way out of some hairy situations on the streets of foreign, war-torn cities. I had passed judgement down the barrel of a scope rifle. The relativity was all out of proportion.

"I see," L said. "Will you bring me to live with you?"

"Well, do you remember the place I told you about? With other children that are... gifted. It's called Wammy's House... I don't live there right now, but I'm working on it. In any case, I would be there a lot, and you would have... you would have a better life than here."

He looked at me, and the child that he really was shone through all the precociousness and shrewdness. He was alone. He had no say in the world, no legal right whatsoever. He was at my mercy and—painfully—smart enough to realise it.

"Can I still talk to Mr. Smythe and the police?" he asked.

"Yes! Yes of course. I will support your investigations all the way. Nothing will change, except you'll live in a house that's warmer, has more children like you, better learning facilities and... I'll be there instead of Mr. Smythe. That's all."

He gave me an almost smile and nodded. "Ok."

Relief. I realised that I had been tense all the way back from Japan. What would I have done if he got angry, or worse—cried? Would I have dragged him from his home kicking and screaming? Luckily now I didn't have to answer that question.

"Yes, so we'd better pack your things. Wammy's House is not far, you can come back here and see your... friends, any time you want."

"I don't have any friends," he said, as he turned and pulled a suitcase out from under the bad.

"I'm sure you'll make lots at Wammy's."

I wasn't sure at all.

It was fully dark as we left Milesdown. Mr. Smythe said a very curt goodbye to L, and I couldn't help but feel that him taking his disappointment and frustration out on a child was bad form indeed. L was better off without him.

We walked the wintry streets of Winchester, rather than take a cab. The cold night air cleared my head and drove away some of the tiredness. L walked beside me, huddled up inside a light coloured coat, a white scarf wrapped around his neck and lower face, so that only his big dark eyes were peering out above it. He had no hat, and snowflakes settled in his dark hair.

Eventually, we reached the big wrought iron gates of Wammy's House. They were closed. I pressed the buzzer on the side and waited for Roger to answer. Time slowed to a crawl, the bells of the nearby church started chiming. The snow kept falling. I squeezed L's hand and could only guess at which one of us was most nervous. The world was holding its breath, and now, so many years later, I still believe that I felt at the time that something momentous was going on.

--

If I had never found L, who knows how many people's lives had been lost. He would always say, as he grew up, that he didn't care about the morality of crime-fighting, that he was doing it as a hobby, because it interested him. He doesn't want to be anybody's saint, and—more importantly, I think—he doesn't need the added pressure of appointing himself some sort of super hero. It is better to let people think he doesn't care. That way, I think he think, they will be less surprised and hurt when he uses them as pawns in a game. A few broken hearts to save a lot of lives; L was always prepared to make sacrifices for the greater good, and he knows enough about human psychology—the theory of it at least—that he is aware a lot of people won't understand this. So he tells he's doing this for himself and he lets them hate him if they want. He says he had no morals, but that is just another lie. I know this, because I know _him. _I always knew but kept my mouth shut, for the greater good.

Only once during all the years I've known him did I disagree with this cold heart act. That was with the kids, my kids. Kids need heroes, but he refused to play the part. He gave those enthusiastic little souls the same spiel he gave everyone else. The "I don't care, It's just my hobby" routine. Tried to play it cool with those who were aspiring to be just like him. _Be_ him, one day. That is the only time I remember arguing with him, afterwards. I remember being quite cross. I remember him glaring at me from under that wild hair and waiting for me to end my rant. I called him childish—he didn't deny it. I asked if he had forgot what it was like to be their age, in their situation. He didn't reply. Eventually, he said, "The world is getting worse, isn't it?"

"Perhaps so, but that is no reason to let yourself go the same way."

"That's not what I meant. The one who's going to take over from me will have a tougher job than I've had. We need someone who can handle it. We need the best."

"You might just have scared away the best," I said, bitterly. "The ones with the sense of justice needed for the job will not be interested in personal games. Because I hope you realise that a brilliant child, whom you have just led to believe only has to pursue his own gratification through puzzle-solving, with no sense of justice or morals, could be extremely dangerous with the power that the position of L holds? I would have thought that was obvious after what happened with Beyond Birthday."

"If they got scared away, would they be the best? If someone turned down a position with so much power to do something for what they believe in, just because their predecessor said he didn't believe it, would that be the kind of person we're looking for? As for the danger, I trust you and Roger to be able to handle it. You have so far..."

A test. I understood. All the anger ran out of me. I wasn't ashamed of my reaction, but I could see why he had done what he did. Certainly, good intentions were not enough. A high moral code was not enough. They needed to have that edge, the competitiveness and the drive to disregard some rules when necessary. They needed to want to win, not just for justice, but for themselves, or they would not win. Not in the real world.

It was just the disappointed look on those little faces that haunted me. They idolised him so. Because of what he was, and because he once had been just like them.

--

The last note of the bells rang out, and the big gates of Wammy's House swung open on well-oiled hinges as Roger pressed a button inside the house. The temperature was dropping and the snow crunched under our feet as we walked up the driveway. The fire would be burning in the study, and Roger would already have put up the Christmas tree. Although this house had never been my permanent residence, it felt more like a home than anywhere else had. I hoped that L would grow to feel the same.

The big house was silent, save for the metallic ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall. None of the other children had arrived yet; they would come in the New Year. Roger had only finished up the last preparations a few days ago; furniture and books, teaching staff, etc. There had been much to do in the past few months, but now it was finally ready.

L stood on the hall carpet and looked around. The contrast from Milesdown's cold and chilly foyer must have been big. Here it was pleasantly warm, a feeling added to by the ambient light. The wood was polished and shiny, the carpets fluffy and rich in colour. The glass of the doors and the lampshades was crystal clear and decoratively refractive. Roger liked to clean.

He came out to greet us, shook my hand and nodded a little at L. That was Roger's only downside, he was not very fond of children. He was a brilliant administrator though, and the kids would have teachers and other adult contacts that would give them more affection, so I was not worried about their welfare. As for the week and a half before they arrived, I would be here for L.

"Where are the others?" L asked.

"They will come in January."

Roger took the suitcase with L's things from me and said, "Follow me. I'll show you the way to the dormitory."

"What?" L said, "Don't I get my own room? I need my own room."

The face on Roger was worth every minute on that long flight over. He stared at L, growing pink with indignation. Here was this orphan, showing no gratitude whatever, but rather having the nerve to make demands! I fought hard to keep a straight face as Roger spluttered, "Why... now you just see here young man..." I had to step in and end his misery.

"Roger, I'm sorry. I should have rung ahead and told you. As L is our first student, I promised him he would have his own room. The third floor, east wing room should be ideal."

"The guest room? That room is big enough for..."

"...for all his maps and charts. It will be perfect."

Roger was nearly hyper-ventilating with the thought of that rather generously sized bedroom with the morning sun and beautiful view of the back gardens wasted on this little fosterling. It was a joy to see. I was being evil; only slightly, mind.

"Well, you're in charge," Roger said, storming off up the stairs.

L gave me a look and a little smile of mischievous concordance. It warmed my heart to see we were on the same wave-length, but still I felt obliged to say, "Now, you promise you'll be nice to Roger in the future. He is not a bad person."

"I promise."

"Upstairs with you and get unpacked. I'll go see what's for dinner."

While L ran up the stairs, I made my way to the kitchen. There was roast beef and pickles and lettuce in the fridge and I made two sandwiches, not having the energy to cook anything or wanting to bother Roger. L would probably not want to eat it, but he sorely needed the protein. I took a handful of shortbread biscuits out of the tin and put them on a saucer as a bribe or incentive. Then I boiled the kettle and loaded a tray to take into the study.

I called it a study; it was really more of a library. My favourite room in the house, a large space with a huge fireplace, panoramic windows onto the garden, a well sat-in leather armchair in front of the fire, and the walls lined with bookshelves. And—this time of year—a majestic Christmas tree decorated with silver baubles, fairy lights and tinsel. I would have liked those little red-and-white-striped candy canes, but they weren't Roger's style, and anyway, L would probably have eaten them all while we weren't looking.

I sat the tray down on the desk and sunk into the armchair. The relaxation was intense and I closed my eyes for a moment. The fire sparked and made the wood pop, and I think I dozed off for a few minutes. Then L's voice pulled me back to the waking world.

"It's the hospital," he said.

I turned my head to see him standing over by the desk. He had pushed the tray to the side and somehow managed to get down a very heavy-looking book from one of the shelves. His annotated map was spread out on the desk, and his face was very serious.

"What hospital?" I asked, but the suspicion was already eating my nerves.

"Royal Hampshire County Hospital. It's one of the bomb sites. I've known that ever since I worked out the locations of course, but I only just realised that it's the fourteenth site. That is, it's the first site. It's the one that's missing, Watari! And that's because it has already happened!"

I got out of my seat and walked over to where he was pointing at a page in the book with a finger trembling with excitement. It was a recent history book about the war. The entry he was pointing at was on Halloween Hospital. Oh no.

"The numbers don't match, and I need a lot more information, but... you remember I said I thought the perpetrator had been in the war? I was right. He did this, and now he's doing it again. So why the interruption? Why..."

"L... I really don't think the same man did this. I mean, it was during the war, the enemy..."

"It's right on the spot! Pitcairn Islands, their capitol is Adamstown. A, the first one. I bet that we'll find out that the bomber victim had Adam somewhere in his name."

This was bad. I didn't want L to go digging into this case. He would find out about his parents, and if he was right about the man behind it being the same one, this case would turn very personal.

"You won't find out anything about it," I said. "War-time crime records are closed. The police won't bother dragging this up, it's already considered solved..."

I was talking out the side of my neck, and I knew it. L probably knew it too.

"We're looking for someone who was not able to use his original time plan... for some reason... perhaps illness... or jail time..."

"You may be right. We will follow up on it. Now, eat your sandwich."  
"No, thank you. I would call the hospital, but they're not going to talk to me when they hear my voice. Actually, that's another thing I could really use, some kind of voice distorter... for dealing with the police. By the way, is the device almost ready?"

"L. Eat your dinner."

He stared at me, and I could see the calculation engine working behind his eyes. I was being troublesome, but he might gain more from indulging me. Although, that would set a bad precedent and he would end up having to keep doing it. The plate of biscuits I had brought now only held a few crumbs; my bribe lost to my unwatchfulness.

"The next strike is in three days," he said, like it was an important factor I had overlooked.

"I know that. That's why you need to keep your strength up. A few biscuits is not enough to keep you going."

"Are there no more of them?"

"You need real food."

He picked one sandwich off the plate, opened it and peered suspiciously at the meat and vegetables inside. I poured the tea and ate my own sandwich. It didn't take long; I was famished. When I was done, L was still poking at his, pulling out a slice of pickle and barely touching it to the tip of his tongue. His face creased into a grimace of disgust.

"You don't like the pickles?" I said, amused. It really had been pushing it; I didn't think any child his age would like them, but I had chanced it because of the vitamins.

He shook his head, looking unhappier than the situation warranted.

"Ok, pick them off then. But L, you are going to have to learn to eat things you don't like. You cannot live on sweets alone; you'll destroy your body. And your brain is part of your body, so what are you going to do then?"

He looked perfectly miserable, pulling the pickles out of his sandwich. When they were all gone, he held the sandwich in front of his face, looking at it like he was preparing to jump from a great height.

"If I eat it, will you call the hospital?"

"It's not going to harm you," I joked.

"No, I mean Royal Hampshire... oh. I see. Very funny."  
"Yes. I'll call them."

He nodded and attacked the sandwich like it was an enemy. Focussed and goal-oriented, he chewed like a machine, his face blank. Afterwards he looked at me like he had just won a fight.

"Very good." I looked at my watch. It was already gone nine. I had slept longer than I thought. "I will call them first thing in the morning."

"No, call them now."

"I'm not going to call them now. Only night staff would be there, and they are busy enough without having to talk about old tragedies..."

"You would have called them tomorrow anyway, if I had asked you then. Wouldn't you?" I didn't quite understand why he asked, but said, "Yes, I suppose I would."

"So I ate that for nothing."

He stuck the tip of his thumb into his mouth and looked into the fire. I was tired, turning giddy, and the jet-lag made it all so surreal that I could no longer hold back a laugh. L looked almost frightened by it.

"I'm sorry," I said, still chuckling, "I'm sorry."

"For tricking me?"

"What? No, I'm sorry for laughing. It's just... it was quite rude."

"Tricking is ruder than laughing."

And he was so completely serious that the corners of my mouth started twitching against my will. "Will you let it go, eating a sandwich is no big deal, and I will call. I didn't trick you."

"You did too..."

He was losing his sour face, but before he could finish the sentence, the telephone rang out in the hall.

"Excuse me," I said, going to answer it.

I was still smiling at the way he had managed to blow a simple sandwich out of all proportion as I lifted the receiver. The voice on the other end spoke Japanese. All traces of a smile slipped off my face. In the doorway, silhouetted against the roaring fire, was L looking at me. The Christmas decorations on the mantlepiece looked suddenly cheap and insignificant, the light losing all its warmth. The child in the doorway sought out my eyes as a voice halfway across the world told me that L's grandfather was dead. He might have been a cantankerous old geezer, and there was no love between him and L, but he had been his only living relative, and now he was no more. A life had ended and no bells were ringing to mark his departure. There was only silence, falling snow, and the approaching night.

--

_Disclaimer: Please note that, although most of the place and business names in this story do/have exist/ed in the real world, this is only an indication that I'm too lazy to make up fictional names and simply resort to using google. Alot. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. Watari's name in this is Quillish because it is in the book and it sounds more like a real name to me than 'Quillsh'. Timeline taken from the manga/book, not the anime. Some scenes taken from the anime. No offence meant to people living in Winchester or anywhere else. The political views of anyone in this piece of fiction is not necessarily shared by the author. Death Note is the property of people who aren't me. No animals were injured in the making of this fic. Watari may or may not have invented a glow in the dark carpet.. Article is provided "as is" without any warranties. Some in-jokes may occur. Not responsible for direct, indirect, incidental or consequential damages resulting from any defect, error or failure to perform. Feedback is appreciated. Thank you very much reading this fic._


	8. Sanctuary

Chapter 8: Sanctuary

On the morning of December the 23rd, I came downstairs to find L on the floor of the study, his maps and notes spread out just like he used to have in his room. He seemed to have taken to this room though. Roger would be delighted, I was sure.

The fire had burnt out and it was quite chilly in here now. The windows were painted with rime on the outside, the temperature must have dropped really low during the night.

"Good morning, L," I said.

He looked up briefly. "Good morning."

"How are you feeling? Are you not cold in here?"

"I'm fine."

He had taken the news about his grandfather well. Or 'well', he had taken it in his stride, much like everything else. No tears, just a quiet 'I see.' He didn't want to talk about it, but neither did I get the feeling that he particularly didn't _not_ want to talk about it either. He just had nothing to say on the matter.

"Have you seen Roger?"

L just shrugged his shoulders and made a non-committal noise. It was rather odd that Roger wasn't here, talking about breakfast. He always got up at seven AM sharp, and now it was... No, that couldn't be right. I looked at my watch again. It was five o'clock in the morning! I had gone to bed at half nine last night, and my body was still on Tokyo time. The Christmas tree lights were on though—which I found unusual since Roger was meticulous about turning every little light off during the night, a remnant of wartime behaviour.

"Did you..." I pointed at the tree.

"Yes. Should I not have?"

I felt slightly guilty, thinking about L tip-toeing downstairs in the dark, coming into this cold room so early in the morning to work on his case with only the lights of the Christmas tree for company. But I had to sleep sometimes.

"No, it's good. What would you like for breakfast?"

"Anything. We're running very low on time. Day after tomorrow, there will be another attack. And the worst thing is... I can't pin-point the location. Look."

He twisted the map around until it faced my way.

"Saint Helena including Ascension and Tristan da Cunha. Jamestown is the capital, but there are three islands in the territory, and they're not that close together. So there are three potential locations. There might be three bombs, but I doubt it, because it is only one Territory. It would be cheating. But which one will he pick?"

"I don't know. I have to go to the workshop today. The parts should have arrived, and I should be able to finish the device," I said.

"And you said you'd call the hospital. You really need to call the police as well. You can pretend to be me, like Mr. Smythe was."

"I don't think they will fall for that. Remember, Mr. Smythe used to work there."

"What?" L stared at me.

"Mr. Smythe used to be a policeman, didn't he tell you that?"

L looked down. "No. No, he didn't. But Fowler said something... Fowler once said that Mr. Smythe had given him a chance when no-one else would. He was very angry; some of the other children were playing a prank on Mr. Smythe—potato in his exhaust pipe, something silly like that—and Fowler caught them. He was raging. I wonder if he..."

L was breathing fast, staring hard at the papers in front of him.

"Watari, do you have a computer I can use?"

"Yes. There is one in my office. Come on, I'll show you."

L followed me to the smaller room that was to be my office when I moved here. Right now it was quite empty, just a desk and a chair. My books and papers were back in the workshop. The computer was brand new, I had only used it a handful of times when I had needed to communicate with contractors or future staff.

L climbed up onto the swivel chair and pulled his legs up. His feet were bare, I saw now. He really shouldn't be walking around barefoot on these cold floors.

He started up the computer and started tapping on the keys. Mr. Smythe had mentioned that they had a computer at Milesdown, but I had no idea L had already grown so proficient at using it. I suppose, with a brain like his, you could learn anything just by reading up on it. I was still a bit alarmed when I saw what he was trying to do. Searching the police database was not something I wanted Wammy's House associated with. Luckily, it didn't seem L was any kind of hacker. Yet.

"I'm going to make us some breakfast," I said. "Will you be alright here on your own?"

"Mhm." He was already absorbed in what he was doing.

I went to the kitchen and made toast. We would need to get in touch with the police, that much was true. They already knew that a detective with the code-name L was working on the case, and I presumed that they had no idea of what he sounded like. I would make a call, but not five o'clock in the morning.

When I came back to the room, L was no longer typing. He sat with his arms hanging down his sides and just stared at the screen. He didn't seem to notice me coming in, or putting the tray on the desk. I walked around behind him, and he didn't move. And then I saw it.

He hadn't hacked into anything. He hadn't needed to. He must have seen the little envelope down in the corner when my e-mail client had finished downloading the new mail. He must have got curious and clicked on it. I should have set a password, of course, but I was the only one who ever used this computer. The office was always locked. Excuses. I had messed up.

The e-mail was from an anonymous account, but after reading it, I knew immediately who the sender was. Mary Montrose, the nurse I had talked to at Royal Hampshire County Hospital. I had given her my contact details, if anything else was to come up. Apparently it had. The e-mail read,

_"Dear Mr. Wammy, _

_I have recently come across some further information in regards to what we discussed. I cannot reveal my sources, except for to say that they are very reliable and connected with law-enforcement. I told you that I had simply taken for granted that the boy's parents had perished in the attack. They did, although it seems that there is more to it than that. Much more, and of a confidential nature. In fact, my source assures me that if you were to come into possession of the military's report on the case, you would find there has been a clear identification of the suicide bomber responsible for the attack. The reason this has never been revealed to the public is because the attacker was one of our own; as coincidence would have it, the boy's father. I cannot tell you how upset this whole affair has made me, but I feel that I should tell you as I believe you have the child's best interests at heart and I trust you to handle this information discretely. Good luck."_

Oh no. Guilt welled up inside me. Not only because L would know, but he would know that I had known and not told him. My moustache itched; it always did for some reason when I felt ashamed. I scratched it and tried to think of something to say. He beat me to it.

"This," he pointed a thin white finger at the screen, "is it about me? Am I the boy?"

What was I going to do? Lie?

"L..."

Suddenly, he sprung from the chair, moving faster that I had ever seen him move, and ran out the door. I stood in shock for a few seconds, feeling fragile things breaking, and then ran out in the corridor, calling his name.

He wasn't there, but I heard footsteps pattering down the steps, fast like a drum roll, and then a door opening and slamming. The front door.

"L!"

I ran down the stairs and tore it open. The biting cold December air hit me in the face and took my breath away. It must have been minus 10 out there, at least, and still pitch dark.

I quickly kicked off my slippers and stuck my feet in my shoes. Then I threw on a coat and ran to the cleaning closet under the stairs for a torch. Cursing myself for leaving L alone with the computer, I ran outside.

The light from the street didn't reach up to the house. The front yard was a decent size, but the grounds at the back of the house were much bigger. Above my head, stars were glimmering like mad and my breath left my body like a white cloud.

I switched the torch on and shone it downwards. Thank god it had snowed. I could see the prints from his bare feet in the snow, I could follow them.

They led around the house and out back, disappearing into the darkness between the trees. God it was cold. I followed the trail of footsteps across the grounds, slipping on the snow and almost losing my footing a few times. They led of towards the little chapel down towards the pond. The building now known as Wammy's House had originally been built for some clergy or other, and there were still remnants of religious themes throughout, like the beautiful stained glass windows in the southern corridor, and—indeed—the chapel.

The door was an old, heavy oak door, a telltale fan pattern in the snow and the disappearing footsteps told me I had found L's hiding place. The door creaked as I pulled it open and stepped inside, then closed behind me. My glasses immediately fogged over, and I had to clamp the torch under my arm while I cleaned them off with a tissue I always kept in my pocket for this purpose. Total blackness crowded close to my feeble torch beam. I replaced the spectacles and swept the light over the pews, finding only thick dust.

"L!" I called into the dark, "Where are you?"

There was no movement. My heart burning with sadness, I walked up the short aisle, shining the torch left to right, until I reached the steps to the little altar. It wasn't much more than a squat, ordinary table with a thick white cloth draped over it. A crucifix and a bible lay on top, both in dire need of a dusting down. Strange how Roger hadn't taken the initiative to clean in here. Perhaps he had just not had the time.

I walked up steps and around the altar to shine my light down towards the door, inspecting the pews again from this angle. Still no sign of L. He had to be in here. I was freezing, even through my coat and shoes, and could only imagine what it would be like for him, barefoot with no coat.

Suddenly, I heard a tiny sound, like a little scrape or a leaf rustling. It came from just by my feat. I squatted down and lifted the tick cloth to shine the torch in under the altar table.

There he was, balled up as usual, squinting at the light. I set the torch down on its end so that the light shone up at the underside of the table.

"L, you'll catch your death out here. Come on."

I held out my hands, but he just hugged his knees and refused eye contact. He was visibly shivering from the cold, his feet and the cuffs of his trousers were dirty and wet from the snow.

"I'm sorry you had to learn about it that way," I said, "but I didn't know anything either until just now. I hadn't read that mail yet."

He didn't say anything, just stared ahead, unblinking. He was not crying, but I could still see the pain on his face quite clearly.

"You said yourself you thought it was a fire..."

I had no idea whether I was helping him by stating the obvious or not, but I had to get him to talk. I had to get him inside and I didn't want to do it by force. But if he didn't stop this stonewalling behaviour, I would lift him out and carry him inside kicking and screaming. I was freezing.

"L, I realise you're upset but..."

"Why?" He looked at me suddenly, his eyes shiny with unshed tears.

"Why what?"

"Why am I upset? I didn't know them. I never met them. They're dead; what do I care _how_ they died?"

I sat back on my heels. He wasn't upset that his parents were dead, he was upset that he was upset.

"It's still normal that you'd feel sad about it."

"Is it?" He didn't sound convinced. I tried some motivational tactics.

"If you're right about it being the first Mad Bomber attack, your father was not the criminal the military believe. When you catch the real killer, you can clear his name..."

Finally, the miserable hollowness lifted a little from his face. His usual look of being in deep thought returned. I could see the cogwheels turning.

"Okay?" I asked "Can we go inside now?"

He nodded and crawled out from under the altar, knocking over the torch. It rolled to the side, catching a stone angel in its cone of light. A woman with a sad face and big wings. I picked up the torch and reached out for L.

"Come on, let me carry you in."

"I'm fine. I can walk."

He wouldn't even let me hold his hand in the dark chapel. Perhaps the fact that I had checked up on him, talked to the nurse about his parents behind his back, had permanently damaged any trust he'd had in me. I would try to fix it, but right now, getting warm was the more urgent matter. I pulled the door open and saw that the sky had lightened. The snow sparkled in the dim light.

"That's it, you're not walking barefoot through the snow again. Hop on my back."

I stood next to a pew so he could climb up, which he did, clearly not happy about it. I hooked my arms around his knees and he wiggled his feet into the rather deep pockets of my long coat. I hurried back to the house, glad to be back in the warmth. L wasted no time jumping off my back and padding towards the study, his feet leaving dirty wet marks on the carpet.

"Oh no you don't! Bath, now!"

"I don't have time..." The excuse was half-hearted, and more for show I think. There were no more protests.

While the tub was filling with hot water, and L poured in enough bubbles to hide a small car, I went back to my study. More than anything else, I wanted to know who Mary Montrose's contact in the police were. Clearly someone who had access to military files. I decided to give her a call at the hospital. The e-mail had been sent at three o'clock this morning, most likely from a public computer that could not be tied to her. The best guess would be that she worked night last night, and if so, wouldn't have got off her shift yet.

I was right. She was there. She was nervous and didn't want to meet with me, but eventually I managed to talk her into coming round after her shift ended at eight. I told her that L wanted to meet her. A low blow perhaps, but it was the only thing I could say that would persuade her.

After dumping the cold toast and tea that was still sitting on the tray in my study, I left clean clothes for L in the bathroom and dumped the old ones in the wash. They were absolutely filthy, and his face was dirty too. Dust and cobwebs had stuck to his hair. He was just sitting in the tub, piling suds into islands and clouds, not actively washing.

"Wash your hair," I said. "Or I will have to do it for you."

The threat kicked him into action and he glared at me before sinking under the surface and re-emerging with a ball of white suds stuck to his head. I sighed and went to the kitchen to make new breakfast to take into the study where I got the fire going.

Tomorrow was Christmas eve, only one day to go. I wondered what I should get L for Christmas. What could you get such a strange child? Peace of mind was the only thing he lacked. And that was so hard to wrap.

When L came back down, he looked almost human again. His damp hair stood at all angles, but he had cleaned his face and had clean clothes on. He wolfed down the pancakes I had made and started to study his map again like nothing had happened. Extreme as the storm had been, it seemed to have blown over quickly.

Some time passed in silence. I read up on explosives and Roger came down to roll his eyes and the way I had let L spread his things out on the floor. He went away soon enough. In the bizarrest possible way, I almost felt Christmassy. The roaring fire, the tree, the child on the carpet that, if you didn't look too closely, could almost be seen to be playing. Moments like these, you could almost forget what the world was like. Forget about all the dying and loneliness that went on out there, just cosy up in our own snug, warm, safe haven.

It couldn't last long of course. About half past eight, the doorbell rang. The next big storm was about to break.

--

_A/N: Alright, apparently it doesn't get very cold in Winchester, but since Death Note clearly takes place in a different reality (where people e-mailed each-other in the 80's etc :D) I'm cranking...um, down that temperature for dramatic effect. Also, I have given up hope of staying in canon with like... every bit of stuff that I find. Most recently, that rather... um... disturbing booklet yoke that went with the L film. Apparently they would have me believe that he could kick about four-five grown-ups' arses as an eight year old... and Wammy put him in a freaking padded cell? They're just twisting stuff a little TOO FAR! Creators that is. They noticed people like L because he's a little odd and they just take it out of all proportions... Makes me frustrated. Sorry for the rant._

--

_Disclaimer: Please note that, although most of the place and business names in this story do/have exist/ed in the real world, this is only an indication that I'm too lazy to make up fictional names and simply resort to using google. Alot. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. Watari's name in this is Quillish because it is in the book and it sounds more like a real name to me than 'Quillsh'. Timeline taken from the manga/book, not the anime. Some scenes taken from the anime. No offence meant to people living in Winchester or anywhere else. The political views of anyone in this piece of fiction is not necessarily shared by the author. Death Note is the property of people who aren't me. No animals were injured in the making of this fic. Watari may or may not have invented a glow in the dark carpet.. Article is provided "as is" without any warranties. Some in-jokes may occur. Not responsible for direct, indirect, incidental or consequential damages resulting from any defect, error or failure to perform. Feedback is appreciated. Thank you very much reading this fic._


	9. Loyalty

_A/N:__ Time to start wrapping this thing up! Here is the penultimate chapter... _

--

Chapter 9: Loyalty

Roger opened the door, and a few seconds later, Mary Montrose appeared in the doorway of the study. When she saw L, she stopped and clamped her hand over her face. She shook her head and sniffled, "I'm sorry. It's just... has it been that long? It still feels like yesterday..."

L turned his head around to look with incomprehension at the unfamiliar woman.

"Mrs Montrose," I said, getting out of my chair, "thank you for coming."

L swung his head around, looking at me now, for an explanation.

"L, this is... this is the woman who... um, delivered you. She was there when it happened. Halloween Hospital."

I could see him put two and two together. He put down his magic marker and sat back on his heels, hugging his legs. Mrs Montrose took a few steps closer and sunk to her knees in front of him awkwardly. I could see all the little aches and pains that age brings making it a difficult manoeuvre.

"You... have your mother's eyes," she said, reaching out but not quite touching L's cheek.

The smile on her face died. She was probably thinking of what he might have from his father. She still believed that Liam Lawliet was the Halloween Hospital bomber. Responsible for hundreds of lives, not the least of which his own wife and newborn son.

"Mrs Montrose," I said again, "this must be a difficult time for you, with the bombings I mean. They must bring up a lot of memories."

She stood up again. "Of course," she said. "Even though these attacks have been nothing like that one."  
"That's where you're wrong," L said from the floor.

Her face dropped and she gawped down at him. Then, for the first time it seemed, she noticed the map at his side. A look of confused worry spread on her face as L kept talking.

"The Halloween Hospital bombing was the first of a series that is still going on now. It was not because of the war, at least not in the direct way the government thinks. The man behind these attacks works by kidnapping one person to use as the vehicle for the actual explosives. Obviously in the case of the hospital, that vehicle happened to be..." he paused and tilted his head with a strange blank expression. "Well, what was his name?"

I stood dumbstruck for a second. Was he testing her, or did he genuinely not know his own father's name? It was possible. His grandfather might not have known, the hospital records had gone up in smoke, everything else was classified.

"Liam Lawliet," I said, promising myself not to keep anymore secrets from him.

L nodded calmly, but there was a tiny little quirk of his lips that I could not tell if it was a smile or an expression of pain. Mrs Montrose gasped and stared at me with absolute horror.

"It's ok," I said, "he knows."

She looked at me, then back at L. L looked up at the ceiling and stuck the tip of his thumb into his mouth, a sure sign that he was thinking hard.

"Yes. The real bomber was then incapacitated for some reason, most likely prison, until the second attack on July 2 1981. Or..." He grabbed a pen and paper and scribbled something. "Seeing how obsessed he is with numbers, he would not have let the structure fall apart like that due to an inconvenient interruption like prison. He would have re-calculated his original Fibonacci sequence as to make the lost time as insignificant as possible... Perhaps regarding the date of his release as the first date, and counting the hospital attack towards the fourteen only symbolically, which would make sense since my father's name has nothing to do with Adam, but it _was_ the first—logical in a way if he's religious, although I'm not sure 'logic' would then be the right word—anyway, in that case, I would guess that his release date, or date when he was able to resume his sequence, would have been... September 12, 1983"

He looked at me, determined and focused now.

"Mr Wammy." I noticed he dropped the alias in front of the woman who already knew my identity. "I need you to do something. I need you to go back to Milesdown and find out when Fowler started working there."  
"You suspect Fowler?"

"He has a limp. I'm sure he was in the war. The bomber always tied the explosives to one or the other legs of the victim. I'm also fairly certain he has served time in prison. I would like to know what for, of course, but more important are the dates."

Mrs Montrose fumbled for a seat and found the sofa. She sank down like a punctured tyre, all the while staring at L with disbelief and fear. Tears were welling up in her eyes and her hands were trembling.

"I'm sorry," she said, getting up, "I have to go. I shouldn't have come here..."

"What's wrong?" L asked her, more of a probing question than any politeness.

She stared at him, shaking her head and covering her mouth with her hand again.

"I... I have to go..." she walked out into the hall, fumbling with her coat.

"Mrs Montrose, what's happened?"

"I can't..." she was genuinely crying now, her face white with shock, "I can't. I'm sorry."

"Well, if you want to talk about it, I will be at my workshop today." I gave her the address. "Please, if there's anything at all that you remember, or that you need to get off your chest..."

She met my eyes briefly and jerked her head, perhaps a nod, perhaps shaking it no, and then she fled out the door. Nonplussed, I walked back to L, who had not moved from his spot.

"She's hiding something," he said.

"She got very upset. You don't know what it was like during the war. When your ears are ringing from a blast and everything around you is crumbling and on fire, that's bound to be traumatic."

"Perhaps. But that's not why she's upset now."

"And how do you know that?"

"She was fine until I mentioned Fowler. Maybe she knows him. This isn't exactly Tokyo."

"There's still a lot of people in town, you can't assume that everyone knows each-other. But, I suppose it's not impossible. Do you really suspect Fowler?"

L hesitated, frowning down at his papers. "Yes. But... I wouldn't have thought him clever enough for this."  
I looked at my watch. It was nearly half nine. I had to get going.

"L, I need to go. There's a package being delivered to my workshop at ten. The last piece I need for the device."

He nodded, absentmindedly, not even looking up from his notes. I squatted down in front of him and put my hands on his shoulders, lightly.

"Will you be okay here with Roger? No more running outside. Promise me."

"I'll be fine," he said.

"Promise you'll stay in and do what Roger tells you."

"I promise I'll stay in." He gave me that near-invisible, mischievous smile.

"And do what Roger tells you?"

"Mhm."

It was hardly a promise, but it was the best I was going to get.

"Alright. I should be back late tonight, or early tomorrow, depending on how things go with the device. I will talk to the police too, but I really have to go now."

"Ok."

I left him on the carpet with his case notes, and the last I saw was him grabbing the bowl of sugar cubes from the breakfast tray, lifting the lid off it and placing it beside him on the floor. I contemplated going back and taking it off him—it was hardly a healthy snack—but I didn't have the heart. He'd probably be bouncing off the walls with the sugar rush, but at least it would give Roger something to do. I was indeed getting evil in my old age.

The part arrived late at the workshop, it was nearly noon when I got to do the final assembly. The calibration and testing process dragged on late into the night, and I was so absorbed in my work that I even forgot to eat dinner. Sometime around three o'clock in the morning, I crashed out on the sofa.

When I woke up, the light was bright through the workshop windows and I was starving. I looked at my watch and had to do a double take. One o'clock in the day? Lack of food and still-lingering jet-lag were not enough excuses for this. There was not a scrap of food left here, so I decided to do a quick run to the corner shop and get a breakfast roll. It was Christmas eve. I really wanted to get L something, but time was running very short.

Town was crowded with Christmas shoppers and I was starting to feel the stress. I had zero idea what would make a suitable Christmas present for L. Certainly none of the regular toys for eight-year-olds. Eventually, I got a Rubik's cube. I knew he didn't have one of those, and it seemed like something that would appeal to his fascination for puzzle-solving.

Back at the workshop, I had barely finished my lunch before the doorbell rang. I opened it and the first fingers of worry started tickling me. It was Mary Montrose.

If the midwife had seemed upset when she left Wammy's House, it was nothing compared to how she was now. She was already crying when I opened the door, and it took me almost ten minutes to calm her down to the point where she could talk.

"That child..." She sniffled. I handed her a hanky and she blew her nose. "I can't help thinking of all the other children, who didn't make it that day. All those lives... and I've had such a hard time to accept that Mr. Lawliet would have done a thing like that. I mean, I didn't know him or anything, but he seemed like such a nice man. So, if you tell me that he didn't do it, that someone held a gun to his head, put those explosives on him, and sent him into a hospital where his wife and newborn son was..." She started sobbing again.

"Mrs Montrose, who told you that he did it? Where did you get that information?"  
"I... I can't tell... But, this bomber, if he was responsible for Halloween Hospital, he must be a truly evil man..."  
"I agree."

I didn't want to pressure her too hard, the worst thing would be if she changed her mind and ran out of here without telling me what she came here for. I made her a cup of tea instead, and leaned back against the workshop table while she sat in the chair and tried to make her mind up.

"You like to think that you're able to spot evil," she said. "That you could never fail to realise someone was capable of such a thing, even if it was someone you knew well. Someone you've known all your life."  
"I don't think it's that simple. I don't think evil is some kind of infection that you can sniff out or take a test for."

"Perhaps you're right." She wiped her eyes on her sleeve. "He's not going to stop, is he? There will be more attacks, more fatalities... How can I... how can I have that on my conscience?"

I put the cup on the table and pulled up a chair and sat down in front of her.

"What is it that you need to tell me?"

"My... brother. He was stationed abroad during the war. When he came back... he was different. Angry. The only one he would really talk to was this other man who had been in the same squad. He was an explosives expert... and he was injured in the war. His left leg was damaged. They... started blaming the government for Britain's part in the war. He said that our history of colonisation and land conquest meant we had only ourselves to blame for any enemies we had now... I said you can't blame people for what their forefathers did. It was like he implied that the people who died in Halloween Hospital somehow deserved it! That was so absurd and it made me furious. We had a big falling out. This was back in '79. I didn't speak to him again for four years..."

She hid her face in her hands like she was embarrassed to be a robust, middle-aged woman crying like a little girl. The uneasy feeling inside of me had grown to a simmering panic. It was about to break a barrier and flood my conscious mind. I was about to know what was going on.

"My brother's friend got sent to prison. Some stupid prank during a demonstration outside parliament. He... resisted arrest. Fiercely. It turned into assault of a policeman, and he got four years. Got out in '83..."

"Fowler, right? That's how you knew his name. Do you think he did it?"

She moved her head side to side, sobbing. She didn't want to say it, didn't want to implicate her brother's friend in the biggest atrocity of the war. Or was there something else?

"I don't... I don't think... he could have done it alone..."

She broke down again and I was ready to hurl the teacup against the wall. Outside, the light was already starting to dim. It was half past two and I felt like time was running out, and my patience with it.

"But it was Fowler, right?"

"Yes..."

"And you think your brother might have been involved too?"

"He... he... I'm sure he knows about Fowler. He gave him a job when he got out and..."  
Oh my god. There it was. The final piece of the puzzle, falling into place like a ten-tonne block of solid iron. Smythe. Smythe who used to be a policeman, and—apparently—a soldier. Smythe who gave L all his information. Controlled all L's information. Or had done, until I stepped in. With extreme effort, I drew a deep breath and released it, chopped into pieces.

"Nicholas Smythe is your brother. Did you even know that L has spent three years in his orphanage?"

The face on her. Her eyes were wide, he lips quivering. "No! But he... I thought he lived with you..."

I was already getting ready to leave. I shoved the wireless interrupter in a bag and dragged Mrs. Montrose out of her seat.

"You have to leave. I have to go! I have to see L as soon as possible..."

I more or less shoved her out the door. As I locked it, the telephone started ringing inside. For a split second, I contemplated unlocking the door again to answer it, but I judged the chances of it being important as approaching zero compared to what I had to tell L. If I had gone back to answer it, things might have turned out differently. And if Mary Montrose had not been trying to protect her brother, lives might have been saved. Hers, for a start.

But we did what we did and what happened happened. She followed me and I raced off down the street, rushing to get to L, not knowing that I was already too late.

_A/N2: Did you see it coming from a mile away that it was him/them? Shitty whodunnit, or not so bad? Let me know! Next time: THE FINAL CONFRONTATION Muahaha!_

--

_Disclaimer: Please note that, although most of the place and business names in this story do/have exist/ed in the real world, this is only an indication that I'm too lazy to make up fictional names and simply resort to using google. Alot. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. Watari's name in this is Quillish because it is in the book and it sounds more like a real name to me than 'Quillsh'. Timeline taken from the manga/book, not the anime. Some scenes taken from the anime. No offence meant to people living in Winchester or anywhere else. The political views of anyone in this piece of fiction is not necessarily shared by the author. Death Note is the property of people who aren't me. No animals were injured in the making of this fic. Watari may or may not have invented a glow in the dark carpet.. Article is provided "as is" without any warranties. Some in-jokes may occur. Not responsible for direct, indirect, incidental or consequential damages resulting from any defect, error or failure to perform. Feedback is appreciated. Thank you very much reading this fic._


	10. Bells

Chapter 10: Bells

It's the silence. I realise that now. The silence as 25-year-old L stands by my chair, not looking at the bank of monitors and not looking at me. The silence is what's remining me of that day. That silent, not-so-holy night sixteen years ago. It was silent like this, just before the...

He didn't die that day—and neither did I—obviously, or we wouldn't be here now. But there was moments when I was sure we would die. I prepared for it. I would like to say that I was ready for it, but I don't think anyone ever is. Not even L who is ready for anything, all the time. He stares at the floor near my chair and I remember running, faster than I have ever run before in my life.

I ran down the street and my heart was hammering in my chest. I was not in the greatest physical condition of my life, but neither was I completely unfit. Mary Montrose could not keep up with me and I didn't even noticed when I lost her.

It was a few kilometres to Wammy's House; I couldn't run all the way, but I tried. When I reached the door, I was ready to drop, but I yanked it open and stumbled into the hall, already calling L's name. There was no reply, no black-haired little boy appearing in the study doorway with a surprised expression.

I ran into the room. L was not there, and neither were his things. The fire was lit, the Christmas tree sparkled, and there was a big L-shaped absence on the carpet.

Gasping for breath, I forced my legs to piston up the stairs. I had no breath left to call out for him, but I made it to his room and opened the door. Empty, like I had known it would be.

I sank down on the stairs, sitting on the top step, trying to catch my breath. Roger appeared at the foot of the stairs, looking up at me.

"Quillish, what's the matter?"

"Where's L?"  
"You don't know?"

"Of course I don't know!" The stress made me lose my patience and raise my voice. "I wouldn't ask if I knew, would I?"

"There's no need to shout..."

I got up and ran down the stairs, forcing myself not to grab Roger and shake him.

"Roger, this is very important. Where is L?"

"He's gone to the police station. With Mr. Smythe."

"What? Mr. Smythe was here? He took him? He took him..."

Somehow, Smythe must have found out that I had been speaking to his sister. Or perhaps he was just getting worried now that he no longer controlled the information L got. In either case, I very much doubted that he had taken him to the police. Luckily, I didn't have to resort to guessing. Well, not completely.

When L ran off on me to hide in the chapel, I got such a fright that I realised I had to do something about it. He was unpredictable, and if it had not been for the snow, I might never have found him. He was too valuable to risk losing that way, so when I had put him in the bath and went to get new clothes for him, I had hidden a tiny tracker deep in the back pocket of his trousers. It was something I had worked on a few years previously, and among the things that had already been shipped over to Wammy's House from the workshop.

The invention was simple enough, but it had one major downside. I needed my computer to correlate the signal with a map. Which meant that if L moved anywhere after I had found his position, it would be no use to me. I had been meaning to build some kind of handheld device that could hold a map, but other things had come up, and the whole project had been put on ice. So, as it was, I could only check the location on my pc. Still, it was better than nothing.

"Roger! When did they leave?"

"About... half an hour ago? I tried to call you at the workshop, just to let you know. You didn't answer the phone."

So, that had been Roger phoning. If only I had picked it up, I might have been able to intercept them. And if my auntie had bollocks she'd be my uncle. I went upstairs and launched the tracker programme. The little hourglass kept turning over and over for what felt like forever, while satellites were contacted and data transferred. I caught my left hand drumming out a furious rhythm on the desktop while my right clutched the mouse so tightly the cursor jiggled on the screen.

Finally, the map showed up and the red dot blinked into existence. My blood ran cold. I hurried to L's room and found the map where he had marked the locations corresponding to the British Overseas Territories. He had told me he could not pinpoint the one that was to take place tomorrow because Saint Helena including Ascension and Tristan da Cunha were three islands. Three spots. But only one of these coincided with the location the red blip marked on my screen. Tristan da Cunha. And just look where it was. Right on the most famous building in town. The next bomb would go off inside Winchester Cathedral. Where L was right now.

The drive over is a blur. I remember shouting at Roger to call the police and tell them Winchester cathedral was the next bombsite. I remember scrambling frenetically in my coat pocket for my car keys. I have a vague memory of cramming the wireless device into the glove compartment and realising that the snow would make the roads treacherous. But the next thing I remember clearly is parking outside the cathedral and stepping out of the car.

The evening was sneaking up on me. The cold gripped the city. A few snowflakes drifted silently to the ground. I could see my breath; it was coming in great heavy gusts. I was stressed and winded like I had run all the way here.

The grounds around the cathedral were veiled in white and absolutely serene. The lights were coming on, twinkling along the paths leading through the churchyard, and right in front of me sat the cathedral itself; a sleeping stone giant. It's spiky gothic towers scraped the night sky.

There were no police here, and hardly any visitors either, which I found odd considering it was Christmas Eve. Surely, they would have some kind of event on.

I reached back into the car, grabbed the device from the glove compartment, and switched it on. It would pick up L's tracker signal too, and if the detonator and the tracker were in too close proximity, I would not be able to tell one from the other. The usual twitter of radio bands showed up, a few others that might have been mobile phones, and two steady signals coming from inside the cathedral. Showing the device in my pocket, I hurried over to the massive doors and pulled them open.

My vision had narrowed to the intense searching focus I remember from the war; a rapid snapping of images, moving jerkily from side to side, high and low, to catch the multitude of threats that might be lurking at any given moment, and I stepped into the cathedral. The serenity under those sky-high arches was a stark contrast to my inner turmoil. Candles were burning, the airy echo of footsteps and people talking quietly floated gently between the walls. There was a service going on, and the pews were full of people. Smythe could be hiding anywhere in this crowd. I checked the device. The source of the signals were somewhere further along to the left, and I followed them, around people and other obstacles, up the side aisle, down the transept, and to the entrance of the crypt. A rope with a sign closed off the stairs. The crypt was closed due to the reoccurring winter flooding. But the signals came from here, so I lifted the rope aside, and descended. A few steps down into the stony dark, and suddenly something connected with the back of my head. Pain flared up and stars exploded in front of my eyes. I could taste metal. Then everything went dark.

I came to from someone shaking my shoulder. I was lying down, on my back, soaking wet and freezing. A saw a blurry face hover above me and there was a dull pain in my head that flared up into red hot agony as I sat up.

"Mr. Wammy!" A woman's voice. Blinking and struggling to focus, I made out the features of Mary Montrose in the dim room.

"What... are you doing here?" I managed.

"That man at the orphanage told me where you had gone."

"Roger?"

I tried to climb to my feet, but felt like I was on a ship in a storm. A ship that had taken on water, apparently; the floor was submerged under several inches of cold water. Mrs. Montrose helped me gain my balance.

"Where is Smythe?" I asked her, like she would know. "Where is L?"

"I don't know..."

"Are the police here? Why are they not doing anything?"

How long had I been out for? I checked my watch; it was wet but still running. Ten Thirty PM! I must have been unconscious for almost four hours! If Roger had called them four hours ago, like I asked, then where were they?

I climbed the stairs out of the crypt, bracing myself against the stone walls and defying the dizziness. The cathedral was as tranquil as before. No indication that anything out of the ordinary was going on. There were even more people now, here for the Christmas Eucharist or something.

"Why haven't the police evacuated these people?" I hissed at her, not wanting to cause a panic.

"Upstairs!" Mrs. Montrose said. " I remember being up there as a child, and I remember Nick being impressed with the view. This way!"  
She took off through the aisle and I could only stumble after her, my head and heart battling it out for who could pound the hardest. Mrs. Montrose led me to a narrow spiral stone staircase and started climbing up.

"Go call the police!" I said.

"No. It's my brother doing these things. I have to try and reason with him..."  
"Yes, but first find a telephone. We have to let them know!"

She nodded and hurried off down the aisle. The wireless device in my pocket had got wet too, and I was doubtful if it would still work. The screen kept flickering off and on.

We climbed the stairs in silence. A seemingly never-ending loop of the same light-coloured stone steps. The exertion on top of the—almost certain—concussion made me feel like throwing up, but I bit down. After an eternity, we reached the top and stepped out on the nave roof. The floor here was made of timber and above us arched the true cathedral roof. The main lights were off, but the glow from the bell-chamber's open door was enough to see by. Right down the very end, by a huge window right above where the front door would be, there was another source of light. A lamp of the type you would find on a building site sat on the floor and spread a circle of light around two people. I wouldn't have thought I was capable of running, but somehow, I managed.

"Mr. Wammy! Isn't this great!" Smythe sounded genuinely angry.

L made a brief attempt to break away while Smythe was distracted by our arrival, but Smythe caught his shoulder and yanked him back harshly.

"Everyone just stay calm," Smythe said. "I wouldn't want to have to use this." He held up a small black box with an aerial sticking out of it. Clearly the detonator that my device had shown. But where were the explosives it triggered? "Now where is that damn Fowler?"

"James Fowler has been arrested by the police," L said. "On account of him being the Winchester Mad Bomber."

Well that explained why the police weren't here. They thought they had already caught their man. Which, I suppose in a way, they had.

"You did that?" Smythe said, not sounding angry now at all. "You worked it out? I'm proud of you, son!"

"I'm not your son." L's voice was full of disdain.

"Oh, that's gratitude for you!" Smythe said, grabbing L's shoulders and turning him around. "If it wasn't for me, you'd probably still be stuck in Japan, folding napkins! I nurtured your talent when nobody else gave a shit about you! All this! All this so that you'd have something to do!"

L kept his calm, although I could see his eyes widen. Smythe continued to spit his venom. "I taught you everything I knew, don't you forget it! I made you what you are!"

"And now I don't need you anymore." This from an eight-year-old.

Smythe lost it. He slapped L so hard in the face that it knocked him off his feet. My fists were itching to punch Smythe's face in, but he was still holding that detonator. L's tracker signal was still too close to it for me to tell them apart, so I couldn't block it. I needed that tracker turned off now!

L got to his feet. There was an ugly red mark on his cheek and I could see a dark drop of blood starting to make its slow way from his nose. I was so angry I was shaking.

"Oh L," Smythe said, calming down. "look what you made me do. Why do you have to be so difficult. But I'm serious when I say I'm happy you solved my riddle. Well, the part you were meant to solve. Fowler was getting to be a pain in my arse, with his politics and demonstrations. The war messed his head up. There was a time I agreed with him, but life goes on and he just wouldn't get over it! He's much better off in prison."  
I tried to catch L's eye and somehow communicate to him that he needed to take the tracker out of his pocket and throw it away, but he was facing Smythe and couldn't see me.

"I would have got you too," L said. "If you weren't cheating. The next bomb isn't supposed to be until tomorrow."

Smythe laughed. "It's 'tomorrow' in ten minutes! And I never gave you anything about the bombs not being set up beforehand."

"Yes you did. It was always a human vehicle who had something to do with the capital. Tomorrow is Jamestown, so I can only assume that you didn't intend for James Fowler to end up in prison at all. Was he prepared to give up his life for this little game? I guess he had taught you all you needed to know to continue on your own?"

"No, L. If you hadn't worked the clues out by today—excuse me; tomorrow—then I would have judged you not worth my time. This was going to be the last one. We couldn't risk the _actual police_ catching on."

I could see that jibe stinging L much more than the slap to the face had. His already dark eyes went completely black with anger. He didn't say anything.

"As it turned out, you did mess up," Smythe said. "You should have stayed with me. Then nobody else would have to die tonight."

"So," I spoke up. "Where are your precious explosives, Smythe? Or is that detonator just an empty threat? If so, I can't see any reason for me not to come over there and end this myself."

L was finally looking at me. I stuck my hand in my back pocket and stared into his eyes hoping that he would take the hint. There was no reason why he would. Facts and clues were his toys, but human behaviour and interaction were more like weak points. I had no idea if he could read me. His face was just as blank as always.

"Well, try it and you'll definitely find out," Smythe said. "Or, you know, just wait... eight minutes."

Eight minutes to midnight. After that, it was officially the 25th. The bell ringers would already be in the tower, ready to ring in Christmas day.

Then I saw it. L put his hands into his back pockets, like he was only curling up insecurely, and I could see one fist get a grip of something at the bottom. The tracker! He took it out, keeping it behind his back, out of sight from Smythe.

"Throw it away!" I called, looking Smythe in the eyes. He thought I meant the detonator—and he must also have thought I was stupid—and just laughed.

L did. He raised his little arm and threw the tracker as far as he could. It flew through the air and landed somewhere back the way we had come, rattling away down some dark corner.

"What are you doing?" Smythe snapped, grabbing his shoulder again, roughly.

I looked at my invention. I could tell the signals apart now, but the screen still winked out intermittently. Still, I keyed in the necessary commands to block the signal that was in front of me. Now, Smythe should not be able to set off his explosives with that remote.

It was five minutes to midnight. Then there was a voice, a good bit behind me.

"Nicholas! What is this madness? You let that child go, do you hear me?"

Mary Montrose was walking toward us from over by the entrance to the bell tower."Mary! Get away from there!" Smythe shouted.

He sounded more worried than angry. I could see L thinking the same thing I was; his head twitched and his eyes locked with mine. I nodded.

Then everything turned into chaos.

L ran towards me, Mrs. Montrose ran towards her brother. Smythe lunged forward to catch L, but this time he was too slow. L reached me and I grabbed his hand. Together we ran towards the stairs. I could hear Smythe screaming in rage behind me; I don't know what his plan was really. To keep L here until the explosion killed the bell-ringers and then lay the blame on him for not saving their lives? I had no doubt he was sick enough to do that to a child.

Then the first bell rang and was soon joined by the others, until all fourteen huge cast iron bells where chiming out their joy over the approaching Christmas Day. It was deafening up here. I stumbled towards the tower stairs. The signal blocker was not well tested, and the device had been damaged by the water; I had to warn the bell-ringers.

I had just reached the stairs when Smythe caught up with me. His face was deep red with fury, and he was pushing the button on the detonator repeatedly. There was no explosion; my invention worked!

Mary Montrose tried to grab him as he set off up the stairs, but he was fuelled by some irrational anger and wouldn't stop for anything.

"Go downstairs!" I shouted at L over the beautiful noise. Then I ran after Smythe. He would not get away with kidnapping my kid! In hindsight, I realise that I let the anger go to my concussed head, but at that moment, all I wanted was to bury my fist into Smythe's face. I was back in the War, and he was the enemy.

I was about a third of the way up the narrow spiral stairs when I met the first bell-ringer. Then another and another. It got very cramped, and the bells took on a strange, off key tune. I fought on. Half way up, I think most of them had got out. The heavy bells kept going with the momentum, but it was sounding anything but beautiful now. I was almost at the top of the stairs when a man ran past me and bumped into me so hard that I stumbled backwards several steps, and hit the wall where it curved into another coil of the spiral. The device was knocked out of my hand and rattled down the steps. As I turned around in horror, I saw L right behind me.

"Down!" I screamed. "Get back down!"

We ran back down after the fragile plastic box that was all that kept the bomb from going off. A few metres on, I found it on the steps. L picked it up and showed it to me. The display was dark. My blood ran cold. I grabbed L, lifting him, and threw myself down the stairs four steps at a time, all the while feeling the tingling on my back as it anticipated disaster.

We were rounding the last corner when the blast hit. I saw the nave roof, there were perhaps five, six steps left when the shockwave lifted me off my feet. Then the sound! The explosion was not big enough to destroy the bell tower—I learned later—but the sound as it punched into those fourteen iron bells, setting them swinging madly and some falling with a terrible discordant clang had my ears ringing their own note for days afterwards.

We landed hard. Somehow I managed not to crush L beneath me, but rather shield him from the subsequent lick of fire. I got up again, running on adrenaline auto-pilot, and lifted L to his feet like he weighed no more than a sack of spuds. As I hobbled towards the stairs down to the ground floor, something fell out of the staircase behind me with a wet thud. The smell of burnt flesh filled the air and I couldn't not look back.

I don't know who the body belonged to; I couldn't tell. Could have been Smythe, or Mrs. Montrose, or one of the bell-ringers; it was burnt beyond recognition.

"L, don't look," I said, although I could hardly hear my own voice. I was half-deaf.

L looked anyway, of course. He stared, in fact, until I picked him up and carried him towards the stairs. Somehow, we got down. There was panic and chaos downstairs, but nobody was hurt and nothing was destroyed. I clutched L and let us get swept along with the crowd heading out. His wild, singed hair almost blocked my vision as he buried his face against my chest.

The winter cold outside was more than welcome. And so where the faraway sirens I could hear coming closer. It was over. I breathed deep of the cold air and found a calm spot to the side of the building where panicked people weren't milling around. Here I sat L down on a stone bench. Colours spilled over him from a stained glass window and he looked at me, his face sooty and wild-eyed.

"Are you okay?" I asked. "Are you hurt?"

He shook his head.

"Oh my god. What a crazy night, eh?" I was babbling as the shock released its hold of me. "L... thank god! Thank god you got the tracker out... and... that you're okay and..."

"Watari," he said, "I didn't mess up, did I? I solved the case, right? I won?"

For a second, I was dumbstruck. Then the dam finally burst. I don't think he fully understood why when I started laughing, but he didn't fight me when I hugged him. In fact, thinking back on it now, I am certain I could feel his little arms around my neck hugging me back.

--

_A/N: I have no idea if they ring the bells at midnight Christmas Eve. Most probably not. Well, in this alternative reality, they do! Also, I've never been in Winchester Cathedral so I don't know what it looks like. No explosions expert either. Sorry if I've got stuff wrong or generally made a bollock out of this. Endings and me, not the best of friends._

_PHEW! I'm glad it's done! Just the epilogue to go, but I'm sure I won't be out of breath after writing that!_

_As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Anything you think I left out, that didn't make sense etc. Just let me know!_

--

_Disclaimer: Please note that, although most of the place and business names in this story do/have exist/ed in the real world, this is only an indication that I'm too lazy to make up fictional names and simply resort to using google. Alot. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. Watari's name in this is Quillish because it is in the book and it sounds more like a real name to me than 'Quillsh'. Timeline taken from the manga/book, not the anime. Some scenes taken from the anime. No offence meant to people living in Winchester or anywhere else. The political views of anyone in this piece of fiction is not necessarily shared by the author. Death Note is the property of people who aren't me. No animals were injured in the making of this fic. Watari may or may not have invented a glow in the dark carpet.. Article is provided "as is" without any warranties. Some in-jokes may occur. Not responsible for direct, indirect, incidental or consequential damages resulting from any defect, error or failure to perform. Feedback is appreciated. Thank you very much reading this fic._


	11. Epilogue

Epilogue

I spoke to the police on L's behalf while Roger came and took him back to Wammy's House. It wouldn't do for them to find out that the freelance detective that had solved the highest profile case in ten years was an eight-year-old child. Also, we had to protect his identity.

The police were impressed that he had given them Fowler, of course, although less happy about Smythe's involvement. He had a lot of friends on the force. Had had. Nevertheless, they expressed interest in cooperating with L in the future. They even handed me a manila envelope containing some general and less confidential details of a large bank heist that had remained unsolved for six months. Apparently, diamonds had been involved. I stuffed the envelope in my coat pocket and said I couldn't promise anything.

There had been three casualties of the blast in the clock tower. Smythe himself, Mrs. Montrose, and one of the bell ringers. Another ringer had been injured but was expected to make a full recovery. L had saved thirteen lives with that letter he had sent me two months ago, commissioning the device and introducing himself into my life. On such small moments our lives pivot. A few lines of writing on a paper; thirteen human lives. It will wreck your head if you let it.

The police didn't keep me for long, and they even drove me and my car back to Wammy's House. It was three o'clock in the morning.

I stepped through the door, dumped my damp, torn coat on a hook and sank down on a chair in the dark hall. I was not as young as I had been, and as I relaxed, I felt the effects of the whole ordeal. I was tired and bruised and my head still pounded like mad, but I was happy it was over. For a while, I zoned out. Thinking about the war, about life and death, about sanity and insanity. Smythe had said the war drove Fowler crazy, but he didn't realise that it had done the same thing to him, and therein lay his insanity.

Eventually, I managed to gather enough strength to go shower and change my damp clothes. Although I was very tired, I knew I would not be able to sleep, so I went into the study, stoked the fire and poured myself a large brandy. I remembered the manila folder in my coat and my promise that I would have L look at it. For a minute, I contemplated throwing it into the fire. It was a dangerous life that L had chosen for himself, and far too much responsibility for someone so young. But, I knew it was what he wanted to do. I left the envelope on the desk and sank down into my armchair in front of the fire.

It was Christmas morning, but the cold spell had passed as quickly as it had come and the fluffy, picturesque snowflakes had turned to sleet. They slopped against the windowpane in the darkness outside. The fire and the alcohol worked wonders on my nerves and I stared into the flames, sinking into an almost hypnotised state. Apart from the occasional popping of burning wood, it was absolutely quiet.

Something told me to turn around. Not a sound or anything I saw, but I could feel a presence. L was standing in the doorway, in his pyjamas. Roger must have succeeded in getting him to have a bath and go to bed, but that was then.

"L? Can't sleep?"

He didn't say anything, just shook his head.

"Do you want to talk about what happened?"

He shook his head again. I turned back to the fire, not wanting to pressure him. It must have been traumatic, no matter how mature he was for his age. He looked so very fragile in his loose white pyjamas, with his hair messy from bed and—I noticed—in dire need of cutting. He had a big bruise on his face where Smythe had struck him.

He walked around the room for a while, looking at it like he was seeing it for the first time, but not touching anything or speaking. Finally, he came up to my armchair and stood by the side, staring into the fire just like I was. Another child that had just gone through what he had would probably climb into my lap and bawl his eyes out, but not L. He just stood there, silent and serious.

"Do you want anything?" I asked. "I can make some hot chocolate."

He shook his head again. God, he _was_ traumatised! Maybe I should think about contacting some child psychologist, I had no experience with this sort of thing.

L sat down in front of my chair, leaning back against the seat and left, against the outside of my leg. I leaned forward a little and put my hand on his shoulder.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

"Yes."

"You know, it's okay if you feel upset about Smythe. Even though he did bad things, he was... close to you. It's always hard when someone we know dies, no matter how much we disagree with them."

"People die. And he brought it on himself."

Despite the heat from the fire, I felt cold.

"That's true," I said. "But because it's true doesn't mean it has to be okay."

L thought about that for a while, then nodded.

"You're right. It's not okay."

We sat like that for a while longer, in comfortable silence. Eventually, L got up and walked over to the desk without any real aim.

"Mr. Wammy," he said, "I'm sorry. I didn't get you anything for Christmas."

"That's perfectly fine, L. We were busy. I forgot your present in the workshop too."

"So what's this?"

He picked up the manila envelope. It was stamped with 'confidential', but that was more for show than anything, I think.

"From the police. Information about a bank robbery. For when you're ready. If you want it. Nobody is making you to do anything."

"Can I open it?"

He looked like the dull brown envelope had been an intriguingly rattling present wrapped in festive paper.

"If you want."

He pulled it open with the same enthusiasm with which most children open their gifts. Pulling out the photographs and case notes, he crouched down on the floor and started laying them out in front of him. Within seconds, he was immersed in it.

I rubbed my eyes. It was twenty past four in the morning, and I was tired.

"L? I am going upstairs now. Are you coming?"

He didn't answer. Some people might call me negligent for giving an eight-year-old the option to stay up all night, but I knew L well enough now to know that it would be a waste of time trying to tell him what to do.

"L, I'm not ordering you to go to bed, but I will fall asleep here if I don't go now, and you could do with some rest after what you've been through."

Without looking up from his papers, he said, "No thank you."

"Ok. It's up to you. I'll see you in the morning."

Again, no reply. Smiling to myself, I shook my head. That was a mistake, of course, it still hurt. I headed for the door.

"Oh, Watari? Can I trouble you for one thing before you go?"

"Of course."

L looked up at me over his shoulder. His dark eyes sparkled with wakefulness and he was smiling at me, genuinely smiling.

"That hot chocolate you mentioned... can I have it now?"

--

"Ryuuzaki?" I try, one last time.

"Yes, Watari?"

"Has something happened?"

"No. Not yet."

He sits down then, on the floor by my chair, just like he used to do as a child. Not in front of a warming fire this time, but in the cold glow of the monitors. I put my hand on his shoulder and we don't speak. I don't know how many times we have sat like this over the years, but I have come to realise that it usually means that a case is over. But the Kira case is not over. I have a knot of worry in my stomach; all the signs are bad ones.

On the monitors, I see the rest of the team. They are coping as best they can with the supernatural situation and working with L, but I can see so clearly that he confuses them. They don't know him like I do, but then again, nobody does.

"Watari," L says finally. "If something happens... you know what to do."

I don't tell him nothing's going to happen. I don't say that everything's going to be fine. White lies and plastered-on optimism is for children, and he never wanted it, even as a child. Instead, I tell him what he does want to hear.

"Yes, I know. None of them are really ready, but then again, are we ever? Have you made your decision?"

I can almost feel the pressure and the pain inside him, like low-wattage electricity transmitted through his shoulder, up my arm. He doesn't want to do this, I don't either, but it has to be done. Too much depends on him now. Too many lives. Even though L as a person is just a single skinny and unkempt youngster, L as a concept is something far greater, and its continuation needs to be assured.

At any price? We believe so.

"I need to look through their files, but based on the video conference... Mello or Near. They both have that look about them, that nasty look in their eyes, like they would be able do whatever it takes to put Kira away. That's what we need."

I am not surprised. Near reminds me so much of L when he was younger, before he started exercising and developed his martial arts skills. Near has a brilliant and logic mind, but he will not be able to take care of himself if things turn physical. I even doubt that he can be taught to use any weapons successfully. Mello, on the other hand, I have always found a bit too arrogant for his own good, but he will grow up to be a man of action, no doubt about it. The best thing would be if we could get them to work as a team; they would complement each-other well. Near will probably not have a problem with that idea, but I'm afraid that Mello might.

"Well, review their files and let me know what you decide."

Silence falls again. I watch the screens, all those lives, all those conflicting wills. L looks at the floor. Time moves slowly but inexorably towards the end of things. Whether that end be years off or just around the corner, there is no escaping it. What you do on your way there is what counts. We have done a lot of good, over the years. Between us, L and I have done more for the world in these seventeen years than most families accomplish through several generations.

Some more time passes. And finally, L speaks, so quietly that I can only just make it out, "Mr. Wammy," he says, although he never calls me that during a case.

"Yes?"

He hesitates, like he is about to tell me a great and dangerous secret, but that's not it. He hesitates because he's about to say something that will mean that he is almost certain that he will not live to see the end of this case. I can feel it. I can see it in his actions, his body language, everything. And I can see it in his dark, dark eyes as he turns his head and looks up at me from his place on the floor.

"Thank you. For everything."

Too old and too reserved for hugging now—both of us—I squeeze his shoulder.

"No, L. Thank you."

And then there are no more words. And he will sit here for a few minutes more, and then he will get up and walk out to join the rest of the team. And time will pass and what happens will happen. We have done what we can, and will continue to do so. And when we're gone, others will take our place.

Someone once said that death is not the opposite of life; the opposite of death is birth, and life contains them both. Perhaps it's just another tired cliché to make us feel better. But I kind of like it.

The End.

--

_A/N: Well, that's that. _'That'_ episode just makes me sadder and sadder every time I watch it. I struggled hard not to end this story on a totally black and depressive note, but... it was hard!_

_Thank you so much to all of you who have stuck with this story and for all the lovely reviews you've left me and favs and whatnot! Cheers, A.P._

--

_Disclaimer: Please note that, although most of the place and business names in this story do/have exist/ed in the real world, this is only an indication that I'm too lazy to make up fictional names and simply resort to using __Google. Alot. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. Watari's name in this is Quillish because it is in the book and it sounds more like a real name to me than 'Quillsh'. Timeline taken from the manga/book, not the anime. Some scenes taken from the anime. No offence meant to people living in Winchester or anywhere else. The political views of anyone in this piece of fiction is not necessarily shared by the author. Death Note is the property of people who aren't me. No animals were injured in the making of this fic. Watari may or may not have invented a glow in the dark carpet. Article is provided "as is" without any warranties. Some in-jokes may occur. Not responsible for direct, indirect, incidental or consequential damages resulting from any defect, error or failure to perform. Feedback is appreciated. Thank you very much for reading this fic._


End file.
